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Description
It had been years since he was last in that small village; a quaint little town that hovered in its own little world. It looked so different without all the candles and lights strung up between buildings, and the market square was empty as he walked southward. All he could hear was the hollow tap of his hooves against the cobblestone. Candletown was a familiar place, but it wasn't quite home. Not yet at least. He had a bit farther to go before he would be there.
Through the alleys he went, with his cloak pulled tightly around himself. It was irritating - brushing against his legs and snagging at the branches that sprouted from his lower back - and it was a strange, almost alien sensation for the satyr. He was so familiar to how it would rest across his back in his centaur form that for a moment, the way the old singed and tattered cloak of wings he wore so frequently, felt off. But he pushed the thought from his mind and wrapped it yet again closer to his body as he moved on. He made his way farther south, past the cobbler's store, past the hatter, and past the bakery with its signs for the orchard. Farther and farther south he went, not necessarily in any hurry, but most definitely walking with a purpose.

Many little memories started to float back to Aodh as he wound his way through the narrow, empty streets. So many little memories that danced and tugged at him as he walked ever onward. Like the one about his first encounters with the people of Candletown. When it was but an early settlement, and its inhabitants wary of the old growth woods. Or when the orchard was planted - and how nice it was to see the apple trees cared for so tenderly, and how every autumn they bore the most delicious fruits - he had been known to swipe a few in the dark nights when he could. Then there were some not so joyous memories. And with those, the flames around his head leapt and whirled in arcs of bright flames, and his brow furrowed until deep, dark creases formed above his nose.

Aodh paused at what was the edge of the little town - the buildings were sparingly scattered now, replaced with rolling fields of tall corn. Just beyond that, he could see the dark line on the horizon that was the woods. And those woods were the place he had once called home. It was time to visit old memories - some fond and others not - but such was life, he supposed.

He continued walking, down and down the long dirt road that led from one field to the next, and once he reached the last field, he stood and looked up at the tall ominous trees of the woods. The black gnarled branches and the deep inky quiet held within them. He looked for a long time into the depths, and all at once he felt a familiar rush of wind. It was not cold, it was not harsh - but gentle even in its quickness. It was like greeting an old friend, and all at once the flames that flew from his head and tail sputtered. And then they fell flat against his shoulders and his ankles, tame though snarled, and quiet - no longer crackling in his ears. He raised a hand to his neck, absentmindedly trailing his fingers across the crude stitches that he had done - again for the third time in the last month, and he felt his entire body relax. His brows unfurled, his shoulders dropped. And though the bright smoke still seeped out from the wound at his throat, even that seemed to settle in that moment.

He shrugged the old tattered cloak from his shoulders and hung it gently from a low hanging branch, and busied himself with searching the satchel he had at his side. Unable initially to find what he had been searching for, he pulled that off too and sat down, cross-legged in the dirt. Eventually he found what he had been looking for though, and held it delicately in his hands. It was a small silver dagger, simple in design, and weathered. He had often used it when he was much younger when whittling small trinkets. A pastime he remembered fondly from his time in the old woods. It was fitting that it should return home with him though, and as he turned the old dagger in his hands, the corners of his mouth went taught - a smile perhaps, or maybe something more like how one might hold back against any outward emotion. He felt the warmth returning again to his tangled mane of hair, and could see flecks of embers dancing around him again. With the low hiss of an inhale, Aodh raised the blade of the dagger to eye level and again turned it in his hand, the blade now catching the warm glow from his own light.

He knew it would be fine though - for the grass beneath him had not yet died.

Description
It had been years since he was last in that small village; a quaint little town that hovered in its own little world. It looked so different without all the candles and lights strung up between buildings, and the market square was empty as he walked southward. All he could hear was the hollow tap of his hooves against the cobblestone. Candletown was a familiar place, but it wasn't quite home. Not yet at least. He had a bit farther to go before he would be there.
Through the alleys he went, with his cloak pulled tightly around himself. It was irritating - brushing against his legs and snagging at the branches that sprouted from his lower back - and it was a strange, almost alien sensation for the satyr. He was so familiar to how it would rest across his back in his centaur form that for a moment, the way the old singed and tattered cloak of wings he wore so frequently, felt off. But he pushed the thought from his mind and wrapped it yet again closer to his body as he moved on. He made his way farther south, past the cobbler's store, past the hatter, and past the bakery with its signs for the orchard. Farther and farther south he went, not necessarily in any hurry, but most definitely walking with a purpose.

Many little memories started to float back to Aodh as he wound his way through the narrow, empty streets. So many little memories that danced and tugged at him as he walked ever onward. Like the one about his first encounters with the people of Candletown. When it was but an early settlement, and its inhabitants wary of the old growth woods. Or when the orchard was planted - and how nice it was to see the apple trees cared for so tenderly, and how every autumn they bore the most delicious fruits - he had been known to swipe a few in the dark nights when he could. Then there were some not so joyous memories. And with those, the flames around his head leapt and whirled in arcs of bright flames, and his brow furrowed until deep, dark creases formed above his nose.

Aodh paused at what was the edge of the little town - the buildings were sparingly scattered now, replaced with rolling fields of tall corn. Just beyond that, he could see the dark line on the horizon that was the woods. And those woods were the place he had once called home. It was time to visit old memories - some fond and others not - but such was life, he supposed.

He continued walking, down and down the long dirt road that led from one field to the next, and once he reached the last field, he stood and looked up at the tall ominous trees of the woods. The black gnarled branches and the deep inky quiet held within them. He looked for a long time into the depths, and all at once he felt a familiar rush of wind. It was not cold, it was not harsh - but gentle even in its quickness. It was like greeting an old friend, and all at once the flames that flew from his head and tail sputtered. And then they fell flat against his shoulders and his ankles, tame though snarled, and quiet - no longer crackling in his ears. He raised a hand to his neck, absentmindedly trailing his fingers across the crude stitches that he had done - again for the third time in the last month, and he felt his entire body relax. His brows unfurled, his shoulders dropped. And though the bright smoke still seeped out from the wound at his throat, even that seemed to settle in that moment.

He shrugged the old tattered cloak from his shoulders and hung it gently from a low hanging branch, and busied himself with searching the satchel he had at his side. Unable initially to find what he had been searching for, he pulled that off too and sat down, cross-legged in the dirt. Eventually he found what he had been looking for though, and held it delicately in his hands. It was a small silver dagger, simple in design, and weathered. He had often used it when he was much younger when whittling small trinkets. A pastime he remembered fondly from his time in the old woods. It was fitting that it should return home with him though, and as he turned the old dagger in his hands, the corners of his mouth went taught - a smile perhaps, or maybe something more like how one might hold back against any outward emotion. He felt the warmth returning again to his tangled mane of hair, and could see flecks of embers dancing around him again. With the low hiss of an inhale, Aodh raised the blade of the dagger to eye level and again turned it in his hand, the blade now catching the warm glow from his own light.

He knew it would be fine though - for the grass beneath him had not yet died.