Lake Rodney only the dead have seen the end of war

And so he is caught, a ripple of movement signifying his resistance to company, but soon enough the stranger is calling out to him and being a lonely beast, the ghost drifts closer to inspect them. He is nimble; his long body and even longer stride give him a stilted, sharp appearance. Soon enough he is closing in on where the stranger had been drinking but he hangs back, still uncertain, still doubting. His paws are streaked with dark mud that cools into its own layer across the thin fur of his limbs. The closer he gets the wetter the landscape feels beneath his paws, until eventually each step is married to a shake, almost like a cat which doesn't want to be anywhere near water.

The stranger's rough voice calls out again, questioning — and Mou's ears dish forward, then fall back, and he shakes his head. The collar around his neck shuffles lightly there; he has a sudden itch from it, remembering the noose that sat upon his shoulders, but cannot be bothered to sit in the mud and scratch. He rolls his shoulders and the shaking no of his answer becomes a whole-body thing, and then the itch is gone.

He wheezes a breath, trying to say something but, of course, is utterly unable to make more than a few breathy sounds. Maybe that's the point, though? Maybe he wants to prove that he has lost the capacity for conversation.