Howl had seen his denizen in the mirror before: a one-eyed fellow who always looked ready to smile or crack some kind of joke, but hardened by what he assumed was some troubled past. They carried the strange long-bladed spear that the wizard had left in the corner of his room, and fiddled constantly with the fox-head medallion around their neck. Once, when his denizen had nudged down the scarf to scratch at his neck, Howl saw several lines of vivid bruising.

The man was running now - no, fleeing from the minions who pursued him. Somehow he'd acquired a horse and leaned low over the saddle as he urged the beast to gallop faster, faster! But a fireball lamed one of the horse's legs, and somehow Howl knew he knew why they'd chosen the animal as the target and not the man. His denizen was flung from the saddle, thankfully not trapped under the kicking, screaming horse, and laid out several of the swarming minions with vicious ease as he cried out strange words in an unrecognisable language.

It was inevitable that the man would lose this fight. Howl turned his eyes away before he could see them dragged down and suffocated by the mass, troubled by the scene.