Moonsong Glacier you've got a church and steeple

His voice was barely a whisper above the wind. She was not convinced that their spirits had found peace. Grayday's, perhaps, but the troubled man she was inclined to believe still walked among the living - at least here; at his resting place. Sitting beside him, her tail twined absent-mindedly with the dark fur of his own.

"There is something my people believe," tone no louder than his. "Spirits that are no longer connected to a physical body may choose to linger instead of joining their brothers and sisters in the sea. Tuurngaq, they are called. Killing spirits." Tulugak was less fond of this term, as these spirits were not inherently evil. "Perhaps, that is what gray trader has become if he has not found peace."

They could theorise all they wanted, but it was only moonwoman's brother who knew the true fate of his soul. "Usually it is shamans that are closest to the spirit world. Sometimes, in places like this, the spirits mingle among the living. If the mountain wishes to be heard, this is where it will speak." 

She fell into a thoughtful silence then, as Dutch spoke of poetry. There were many words - many nuances - she did not quite grasp. But those she did resonated with recent events. Separating loss from a blossoming future; it was something she grew a little closer to understanding with each conversation she had with him.

"Your poet's carving and your branches - perhaps they are the same tree." They did not have to be so separate, no? "Each branch will be shaped by the snow and the sun to look different. Some may bear fruit, others may rot or grow old, but, all will share the same roots." Her lips quirked in a smile as he met her gaze. "As our roots tangle together, maybe they will carve each other that way too."