The last few months of his life had been fairly mundane—eat, wander, sleep, rinse and repeat. As he had more or less relinquished any desire for company long ago, Howl had found this vast and strange land to be perfect place to retreat deep inside of himself. The grey meditated deeply on his situation, and his consequent exile; he thought a lot about how his sister fared (oh, how his heart ached for her!), or how his brother was holding up. Sometimes, he would wonder if they resented him, or even hated him, but those poisonous thoughts were as transient as dragonflies in the summertime—after all, they were suckled by the same dam, and she would certainly not condone any ideas of the sort milling about in the heads of her children.
   As the green leaves turned red as blood on the creaking branches of trees, and the days grew short and dark, Howl found himself becoming increasingly restless. Some animal instinct in the primal backwaters of his brain was telling him to find shelter before the snow began falling, and the frost bore into his bones. Perhaps as a result of this, he began to notice a little white body in the very corners of his eyes; however, this impression was always fleeting and always left him quite doubtful of his sanity. One grey day, as he wandered through a seemingly endless field skirted by a snow-capped mountain range, Howl heard a song echoing through his psyche as if it was a wind rattling through a narrow berth in trees. Concern twisting his pale features into a grimace, the silver stag stopped dead in the middle of whatever path he followed today, wondering if this incessant wandering was driving him mad. His lion's tail gave a feeble flick.

   Suddenly, he was compelled to go towards the mountain-range, which was somehow crowded by a very pleasant and very sunny wood. For hours, it seemed, he went through this quaint forest, filled with wonder at how lovely and spacious it was. He traced a well-worn path, cloven hooves sinking comfortably into the soft loam. After what felt like miles, a sunlit glen glittered between the long bodies of trees ahead of him, beautiful and enticing—in fact, he hadn't been so interested in anything ever before. His lean legs clattered into a lumbering canter, tearing through the underbrush until his previously shadow-spotted body gleamed with the warm afternoon sunlight of the clearing.
   All four of his hooves dug into the ground, dragging his body into an unceremonious halt—his eyes boggled; his lips drew back in an absurd expression of surprise. Before him, bathed in perfect angelic light, was a pale mare accompanied by some sort of strange green bird. Howl blinked hard several times, attempting to gain control of his rapidly throbbing heart. Aisling's question was left unanswered for several moments as he scrambled to make sense of the situation. Was she a goddess? A fairy? Could she be the Many-Faced Witch, finally luring him to his fate? The hair on his neck went on end when he thought if this—he thought the anonymity of his foreign land granted him safety from the crone, but he knew that she had as many spies as she had faces. At any rate, there was no use in being impolite, so he haphazardously gathered whatever was left of his wits and attempted a forced smile, eyes still gleaming with both wonderment and suspicion. "Howl," he answered, referring to his name. "Are you going to eat me?"

[how thoughtful <33 sorry for the wait - exams have been kicking my butt!]
@Aisling

   Aisling (was that her name?) offered him a fine smile when she heard his query; it bubbled to a laugh on her lips when she considered it. Howl's ears tipped backwards in a motion which suggested uncertainty, his golden eyes trained intently on the fairy-woman. She answered in the negative, seemingly amused by the situation—but it was a valid question, no? The worried creases of his face relaxed into an expression of curiosity, although the suspicious ears still remained. Without being prompted, Aisling told him of her motives and machinations. As she spoke, the tension seemed to roll off Howl's body like droplets on duck's' wing—he knew for a fact that he was safe today, for he was sure the Faceless Witch was not able to concoct such an innocent story, nor magic such a lovely face. She introduced herself and her verdant friend once more, causing Howl's manner to soften. "Forgive me, I seem to have forgotten my manners." The silver stag tilted his head downwards in an extravagant bow, careful not to cuff the duo with his multitude of horns. "Well met, Lady Aisling and little Sorcha," he said, watching the birdling with evident curiosity; he had never seen such a creature in his four years of living, and greatly relished the novelty.

   With a sheepish expression, Aisling confessed that she had been following him. A look of confusion—and then realization—glittered through his eyes. Howl remembered the little visions of white in the corners of his eyes, trailing him like some sort of benevolent phantom. He felt no ill will towards her however, as she seemed quite bashful in admitting her doings; it rather amused him that anyone would find any interest in his daily doings.  "Both," the stag admitted, the tuft of his tail flicking lightly as if underlining his statement. A shadow seemed to pass over his face for a moment, his eyes somber as if considering past ills—at that moment, the tail cuff felt ever so heavy. "I needed a little time to think," Howl said finally, glancing furtively at Aisling as if he had confessed to a crime. But like a spectre, the impression of sadness was gone, leaving no traces but an inquisitive expression; the faint light of a smile peeked between the dark clouds of his face. He remained thoughtful for a moment, watching the little mare with interest.  "If I may ask, what interest would a master of stealth have in a ghost like me?"