Silver Moraine show me the way

the man before him was all frost and whisper, a pale wraith against the spine of the peaks. faust's steps slowed, deliberate and heavy, his shadow stretching long over the snow as he came to stand near. the air between them was thin, stretched taut like the wire of a snare.
haunt 'em all you like, faust rumbled, voice as cold and rough as the stones beneath his paws. his gaze swept over the stranger, sharp and assessing, lingering on the old scars, the glint of something feral behind his pale eyes. but if you're lookin' for quiet, you'll find none here.
he shifted his weight, broad shoulders rolling beneath the dark cascade of his pelt, head tilting as if the very earth beneath them belonged to him. and, in truth, it did. the glacier, the snow, the wind—they had all carved him from bone and night. these mountains don't take kindly to ghosts. a smirk tugged faintly at his lips, mirroring the other's own. or drifters. either you stand and make yourself known, or you vanish like the rest.
faust flicked his gaze out to the peaks where the wind howled. so then, he said, low and even, you haunting us for long, ghost?