The dog puffs into smoke. The first time it happens Fakir stops dead, alarmed. That is definitely confirmation that it's a ghost dog. It's a minute before he thinks to look at the ice that had been beneath the dog. It looks a little darker than the rest. So it's too thin there?

It's definitely a helpful dog.

Fakir has an excellent sense of balance, honed by years of dance as well as sword practice. But there are still things hidden under the drifts of snow ready to challenge the surest footing. Fakir trips over an abandoned, soaked torch, a crushed can of tomatoes, and, most concerning, a sword that's been snapped in half. He cuts himself on the last one, as he slips trying to brace himself. And stops again, more alarmed than he'd been by the dog dissolving.

Because his blood is dissolving into the air. And it's dark, almost black.

What does this make him?