Spirits are as differing as the living that leave them behind. Some pass on to whatever Other there is to see, while others linger, whether to watch over, observe, or something more sinister depends on the being. Most understand that their link to the world is fragile and leaves them between more often than not, though some still try desperately to pretend they never died at all.
Younger - relatively speaking - spirits are those that tend to cling to what they’d lost. Older spirits, ancient spirits, have long since accepted that the living world, while accessible to them, will never be theirs again. An ancient wolf, for instance; one of the first of his kind, to pass his blood, his curse to the mortal world, felled long, long ago by some warrior or other he’d long since forgotten. He was aware that the mortal world would welcome him no longer, and that his existence would remain within the in between that he called his home.
He had grown used to those he watched remaining unaware. Mortals passed him, some even through him with a shudder as the chill of death brushed them, but never paid him any mind. He had settled himself to an afterlife of observing and watching over his realm, but he’d grown bored of remaining in the trees of where he’d once reigned. Closer and closer to the modern civilizations he’d gone, watching the people. A great, storm-cloud-grey wolf, unnoticed by all.
For the first time in longer than even he could remember, he found that his stare was returned. Big, innocent blue eyes bore back into him, and for a very long moment, the ancient wolfspirit showed nothing but shock.
