Blackfeather Woods Her hands were all twisted, she was pointing at me

I'm having a hard time understanding what is going on in this post, but I'll do my best to get something suitable posted for you.

The ghost wanted to stop, to sleep, to at least close his eyes and not see the scattered bodies of the crows encircling him. To not taste their blood on his lips. To look in to the familiar darkness of the woodland and be comforted rather than filled with dread. Yet in the days since his nightmare trip Titmouse had remained in a state of terrified wakefulness that had wasted him away, mentally. He could not tell how long he had been watching the trees sway; how many stars had he counted each night? How many sunrises had he witnessed only to shirk away and hide within the Web? Too many.

So he lurked in the dark, feeling a weakness to his limbs which reminded him of his days of recuperation upon the northern island; but he could not think of Seelie nor of Undersea in the next few moments, his thoughts drifting away from him like everything else. He needed sleep and was too struck by his insomnia — so the decima would suffer. Titmouse didn't know which part of the forest he was visiting at the moment of the stranger's arrival, but he took notice of the shadow's movement and grimly turned his good eye upon them.

It was more like he stared through the swarthy wolf. It was hard to tell the shadows apart from the wolves lately, although this shape - when the light managed to penetrate the spidering branches - took on a muted mahogany-red glow; a warmth that reminded him vaguely of blood, and made him scowl.