Shadewood on the altar of a sunrise

There were remnants of a life well lived scattered throughout the woods. Hints that something had once persisted here and yet, no life to meet him. Maybe it was meant to be this way - that no matter where he roamed he would be a ghost, and the world would welcome him as easily as it might welcome something supernatural. He spent some time inspecting a den that had been abandoned; carefully inserting himself up to his narrow shoulders until the claustrophobia took hold, then scrambling back - not yet ready to place himself where the darkness could take a bite from him. If Sithis was so invested in his soul then he was doomed for the void regardless, but he didn't have to fall victim so easily.

As the ghost wandered he found a few exposed caches where meat might've been stored, but they were uprooted and picked clean. Another, a few feet away and sequestered within a rotting log, was a collection of dried herbs. He inspected them with care, barely disturbing them with each breath, and then continued yet again. His touch was light, as if he were witnessing someone else's life, haunting the woods rather than living within them. Mou had no knowledge of the pack that once called this space home. They were gone, and he should leave soon too - to where, he had no idea.

The black band around his neck felt heavy, so he stopped and sat, then kicked at it for a brief reprieve. It was like carrying a noose with him everywhere, although for the most part the specter had grown accustomed to its presence. He stood up afterwards and shook out his coat, then began to slink along again - but this time, was made to pause by the sound of a voice through the trees.

Were it not for his sober mind, Titmouse would've assumed the forest had come alive. Leaves pulling and piling, constricting, forming a canine shape with which to speak to him - but no, he knew that shape. That face. That voice. Having been found by one of the living, the ghost stopped and stared without a stir of emotion playing on his face. A part of him wanted to run and his thin muscles tensed in preparation; but there was a slight edge to Niamh's expression and - he thought - it almost dared him to move.

Forgetting in that instant of his throat injury, he opened his mouth and said, Yes, but the wheezed breath amounted to nothing - his mouth merely miming the word. The man watched his old friend with a softness that wasn't right, a sense of acceptance almost, world weary.