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Heaving himself through the gathering snow, a little orphan boy struggled to kick his frozen feet up from the deepening drift as he struggled to find his way through the winter gripped town. It was cold and what little light there was underneath the dark clouds was fast fading into the west, leaving him little time to seek somewhere to safe rest. Little Chauhn Clemmings, still some way from his home in Imisus, was on his own for the evening. After traveling all day, huddled between the frozen goods of the trader's cart with his meager clothes and gifted shawls pulled tightly about his shoulders, Chauhn had nearly spent all his energy just on remaining awake at the time the small caravan had finally come to a halt. Unfortunately, for Chauhn, he could not be provided for by the trader once they entered the town. He was left alone to his own devices, directed into the town by the weary caravan driver to seek shelter elsewhere, somewhere where he didn't have to pay for lodgings. Of course, that meant there was only one place that Chauhn could go.

The church.

Chauhn could see it now, one of the largest stone buildings with tall windows filled with light nestled in the center of the village. A few people were pulling their scarves and coats tightly around their shoulders, hurrying home underneath the falling snow and the door was still open. As an urchin, a building of this sort only meant food and shelter, help in times of need. The other implications of the spiritual sort were completely unknown to Chauhn, as he never once visited a church for the services it provided except for that of the charitable nature. Tucking his hands near his chest, near to where the precious pouch of ashes was hidden underneath his clothing, close to his chest, the boy hurried himself as best as his little frozen body could trudge through the snow.

"It's okay, Clurie...We'll 'ave a place to sleep 'ere, ah know it...These places always 'elp us, urchin folk...I'll be okay, Clurie...It'll be okay," he muttered to himself.

Climbing up the slick steps of the church, Chauhn inched his way into the shape of light that fell upon the stair from the open door. He lifted his head, peering up from underneath the brim of his soaked hat, and saw a shape before him, haloed in a glow. It was a man, a man of the church, who stood before him, glancing away from the frost bitten urchin into the church as he surveyed the remaining crowd from the recently closed service.

Reaching forward, his teeth chattering with cold, Chauhn dug his fingers into the hem of the man's robes and gave a subtle tug, "Sir? Mister, please...Help?"

Before Chauhn had the chance to muster up his best 'poor urchin' face, he was scooped underneath the arm of the man and gently pushed inside. With eyes wide and mouth locked in mid-formation of a well-practiced plea, he let his body fall forward under the insistence of the man. His torn boots slipped upon the wet floor just inside the door frame and he wobbled a bit until he gained his footing, unable to do more than stumble as he was, at the same time, getting quickly ushered along by the large hand of the assistant priest. Not only that but it was hard to watch where he was going when he was, at the same time, trying to survey the inside of the church itself. It was a warm looking place, kind of dank and unbearably cold with legions of candles stacked along the aisles and walls in hopes of lighting the place and perhaps warming up the air to the next degree. Deciding that the church was less of a threat than those back at his home in Imisus, where churches were overrun with those who had lost everything to the hunger of the plague, Chauhn relaxed his shoulders a bit and kept up a firm and awkward pacing beside the man who had taken him in. What did surprise him though, was how quickly he was accepted and pulled into the church, as such niceness was always to be treated with suspicion, particularly to an urchin of the streets.

As he walked alongside the priest, he gave a great sniffle and ran his sleeve across his nose, trying to speak past the cold that had gathered in his face. "'M lookin' for a place t'stay for the nigh'. Ah can 'elp with cleanin' or somethin'. Ah dun 'ave anythin' t'pay you with, but ahm a hard worker, sir, 'n' ah can do chores." Granted, his argument was more than jumbled, but he got his point across. He turned up his face, which was, in the greater light, bruised, dirty and pale with cold, and tried again to muster his best "poor child" look, accompanied with a determined furrow of brows, "Ah can earn m'stay, 'n' ah don't each much. Neither does m'brother. M'brother 'n' ah just need a place t'sleep."

Of course, to the casual onlooker, "brother" referred to the imaginary companion of a lonely street urchin.

Chauhn was always prepared to argue for work. It didn't really matter what situation, who was talking to, or what he was doing, but he always insisted to do something in return. It was very hard for him to back down until he got what he wanted: a chance to work and prove himself. Usually, that was the case, because kindness was so often given to street urchins from people or places of recourse without strings or promises owed. It was a backwards way of handling things, Chauhn knew. He knew he was different from the other street urchins who would do anything possible to avoid extra work or effort. They were snide and quick thinking fellows, the street urchins of his coastal Imisus home, but Chauhn was different from the lot. He was the honorable one, the child who made sure kindness received kindness. It was, after all, the Clemmings' way.

So when his offer for work was met with a quick nod and a shove into the church's kitchen, Chauhn was able to do nothing more but choke on his own tongue, startled from his expected play of the situation. Before him, working with the urgency of three hardworking men, was one fierce looking cook with weight on her hips and the hard worn face of a Shyregoedian. She seemed to glow, however, with the kind of tenderness only seen in mothers of more than five children...Much rather like Chauhn's mother. There was little in his memory of her though, too little to even remember the details of her face. He remembered her touch and her smell, but when he tried to bring up the features of her face, the face of an Imisese woman...He could only see a blur and smudge of features. This woman Rosalie, though, tickled him with those familiar feelings and he felt himself give a clumsy smile.

Forcing his voice to work again for him, he nodded excitedly at her, glancing every so often at the sullen priest who meandered off to cut and peel vegetables. "Ahm a hard worker, and so is m'brother," he boasted proudly, his voice still somewhat holding the cold of travel, "Y'could coun' on us!" Wrenching up his sleeves into tight secure bunches on his arms, the urchin hopped over to the wash bin and dipped his hands in.

And oh, what a relief that was. Chauhn hadn't seen a clean basin to wash his hands in for seemingly ages, nonetheless water that was somewhat warm. He was nearly tempted just to jump in, clothes and all, and just curl up in the water, but he knew he had a job to do. He had to help the poor woman! Scrubbing the dirt and grime off of his hands as best he could, he washed his hands and then dried them off with a towel rag that was hung close by. When he was sure he had cleaned his hands off the best he could, he skipped over to Rosalie and gave a few tugs on the hem of her apron. He stepped back when she turned around and displayed his hands for her approval.

"Whot you need us do?" he asked, nearly bouncing on his toes with eagerness to get work done and to get food in his belly.

Lucky for Theo, Chauhn didn't have any standards for the average priest. In fact, the man's out of character retort was nothing more than background talk, something that he paid attention to, but didn't quite mind. Chauhn was busy focusing on something else.

Instructions!

Directions, orders, yes, these were things that Chauhn could understand. He couldn't understand writing, he only read so much more than he needed to get by, but he could definitely understand tasks. Nodding to the woman, his curt nod of clear and concise understanding, the kind of nod that would earn him a look of satisfaction from any employer, Chauhn made a bee-line for the stool, stepping gingerly in Rosalie's heels. Nearly a second after she lifted her hand from the stool, Chauhn was clambering upon it, seating himself on its wooden frame so that his weary legs hung above the floor. He was careful of the nearby flames that spluttered and coughed underneath the brass pots, minding his torn boots so that they didn't kick absently into the fire. As he settled himself on the stool, heeding the woman's directions with a ready and perked ear, the boy nodded after each set of instructions, With his open hand, he received the bequeathed wooden spoon with honor and held it aloft like a sword as she finished relaying his duty.

"Ah promise, mum, ah'll keep a good eye on them!" Chauhn proclaimed proudly, giving her a stern brace of the chin, a sign of his determination. Leaning over, he glanced at the soup, and almost instantly was distracted by its smell. Of course, it was nothing but broth, but nothing but broth was something Chauhn survived on, that and bread and the occasional fish. Soup very rarely contained vegetables for the average urchin, but there were times when Chauhn could get soup with actual carrots and potatoes in them, most oftentimes when he sought work at his own local churches. They were always able to provide in some manner, even though that Chauhn would rather stray from their path, for more than one reason. This church in Shyregoed was different though, it wasn't trying to regulate the desperate flow of Plague-touched families and homeless folk. It was a more humble place, Chauhn saw, a place that he didn't mind.

Leaning over to stir the nearer pot, Chauhn couldn't help but give a great inhale, savoring the smell of the boiling broth. Being so close to the fire, Chauhn fell into a momentary place of comfort, his arm making rhythmic motions in the stew. It was warm next to the fire, and the Clemmings boy could feel the heat melting away the stern bite of the cold. He could feel his fingers again and along with the majority of his extremities. It had been so long since Chauhn had been next to a fire, or rather, been this warm at all. Living in the nooks of his home town, Chauhn never found the courage to make a fire. It just wasn't something he wanted to worry about...It was something he didn't want to think about or really see, actually. Chauhn knew that if he looked into the flame for too long he would be able to see a little boy's body within....clothes and skin blackening, curling away, boiling and crackling in upon itself...

There was a wiggle on Chauhn's chest.

Startled, a bit too much for his comfort, since he wobbled on the stool for balance, Chauhn slapped his free hand to his chest, pressing down on his layered clothes to where, underneath, Clurie gave a great excited wiggle in his bag. He paused from stirring the stew and then glanced down to his chest, staring wide-eyed and uncertain at his chest. Again, there was another great wiggle, a strain, as if to slip free from underneath Chauhn's pressed palm, before it paused, defeated. Slowly lifting his hand a bit, ready to pin the bag to his chest again underneath his clothes, Chauhn waited. Clurie didn't move.

Chauhn sighed, but choked halfway through his relief of air.

If that wasn't the most strange thing for a couple of stranger's eyes to see, Chauhn didn't know what was. Glancing up towards Rosalie with the look of a cornered burglar, Chauhn forced his best awkward smile and claimed loudly, "Ah can't wai' for this soup t'be done, miss! Ahm starving. 'N' ye are a mighty fine cook, ah can tell! Ah can smell it from this stew even before its done." and he completed the statement with a big smile.

Hopefully, that would through them off, the woman and the sour priest.

Curses be on his name and ill health to his body! Chauhn swore loudly within the confines of his own mind as the good woman sauntered closer. He knew that he probably looked like a gasping fish out of water, eyes bulged and mouth agape, but he tried to compose himself regardless, especially with this woman peering ever closer at him and the hand upon his chest. His grip on the wooden spoon could have splintered had he flexed his hand just a bit more, he felt. Too tense to force a reply to Rosalie's question, the child let ope his mouth, but before he could further make a fool of himself, he was saved, or doomed, by an interruption from the priest.

With Rosalie's attention snatched away by the threat of uncooked bread, Chauhn felt himself choke on a rush of air to his lungs, mocking a sigh of relief. His shoulders slumped a bit, but he kept his hand pinned tightly to his chest. Unfortunately, he had little time to catch the reigns of his composure before the tall form of the priest leaned over him pressing him down with palpable pressure from just his incriminating eyes.

Attempting to keep his shoulders and spine from buckling under the gaze, Chauhn swallowed once to wet his dry mouth. He released his death grip on his shirt just enough that he wouldn't be too suspicious of holding something, despite the fact that the effort was probably already too late in lieu of the priest's advanced suspicion. The urchin boy shook his head at the man, trying to knit his brows above his face in a well-practiced angle to convey a child's innocence. As he spoke, he gave a brief set of coughing that he turned to his shoulder for the sake of faked politeness.

"Ah dunno whot y'talk abou', sir. Just a bi' of a ches' cold, ah 'ave s'all," he explained honestly, "Ah've been ou' 'n the cold all da', sir, 'n' m'chest coul' do wit' sumthin' warm."

For a moment, the ploy would've worked. It was perfectly executed, played out without flaw or problem. Had any other urchin of the street seen it done, he would've clapped his hands in respectful awe.

Unfortunately for Chauhn, it was in that moment, the moment where the ploy was sinking in to its raw effect, that Clurie gave another excited wiggle. Struck stiff as if he were encased in a sudden wave of ice, Chauhn looked up with wide eyes to the man staring at him. There was no way that he could hide or excuse his way out of this now. He was caught, in plain sight, right in front of the judging priest who had the very power to throw him out into the cold streets to stay the night in the snow.

"Ah..." Releasing a shaky breath, Chauhn tried to push himself back from the man out of sheer instinct, but such an action on a stool was less than stable. The movement caused the boy to flip back off of the stool and, as the wooden spoon was dropped into the boiling pot, his heel connected with the base of Theo's chin, a prompt and accidental kick to the face. Falling on his back, Chauhn, with the strain of his legs, rolled into a backward somersault, but as he tried to get up with legs to shaken with fear, he stumbled and fell back onto the floor. It was hard trying to get up while, at the same time he was grasping at his shirt front.

The grasping did little though, to calm the squirming on Chauhn's chest. Clurie, managing to wiggle free from the pouch, crawled over his brother's skin, searching for an exit from the boy's clothes. The heat was still around there somewhere...The heat made it hungry. So, slipping free from Chauhn's clothes, a small black little skittering thing vanished into the fireplace with nary a sound.

Which left Chauhn, gaping and panicked, on the floor with his hand upon a chest that pounded for breath instead of the squirming that it had before.

There, in the white ashes was a trembling pile of blackened ash, hiding and clinging to the underside of the burning embers, hungrily trying to dive into the flying puffs of cinder and blinking coal. It was alive, that much could be certain, and it was gathering up more ash within itself, like it were readying a defense.

Surely, a smart fellow with a good head on his shoulders and a controlled sense of thought would have handled the situation with care and gentility, but Chauhn was no such fellow. He was a scared and protective kind of lad with only one thing to live for and that one thing had just skittered away into the fireplace. So instead of reacting in a reasonable and sensible manner, Chauhn did the precise opposite.

"No! No, don't! You'll scare 'im!"

He kicked and squirmed and struggled to push Theo's hands off of his collar as he was dragged away from the hearth by the priest. His little body was easy to drag away, as he was the ghost of someone his age, and his numbed fingers could do little to pry and pull at the man's grip. What Chauhn did have on his side, however, was the fact that the man's arms weren't as strong as they should have been. Without much thought to his actions, the boy finally managed to rip himself free from Theo's grasp and he crawled frantically to the fireplace. He could only think of one thing, getting Clurie back to him, and he was going to do it no matter what. He didn't care if he was thrown out of the church onto its steps, back into the cold, he was sure that he could survive the night just as long as he had Clurie. Squeezing past Rosalie, he pushed aside the bellows and, without hesitation, thrust his hands into the flame.

"Clurie," Chauhn demanded, his voice stern, "Come back t'me!"

He didn't have to keep his hands in the flame for long, because, the instant that Chauhn ducked into the hearth, the little manic pile of crawling ash fled to him. Jumping within his hands and skittering up his arms to lay flat on his face, as if Chauhn had just fallen through a chimney. The boy coughed, wrenching his hands back before they were burned, and proceeded to push himself away from Rosalie and onto his feet. He was moving as if he were going to flee the church right then and there, his face blackened with the writhing ash of the Plague.

Chauhn stood with his back to the flame, his small heaving frame haloed with the hearth's light as he stood, judged before the priest and the now comatose cook. He kept his gaze solely on Theo, his current object of threat, and he struggled hard to reign in control of his breathing. The ash on his face writhed and changed, staying quite flat to the surface of his cheeks and forehead, smeared in a black mask and leaving his eyes intensely white. Before him were his two fists, held up in shaking clenched tight balls of pale knuckles. He was ready to fight, give it all he had against this priest if he dared take Clurie away or frighten him! He had fought before, on the streets, in alleys, and even upon a rooftop, and he wasn't going to back down now, especially from a man of the good word.

But...Unlike circumstances before, the priest offered no threatening motions or mannerisms. He was curious. Struck stiff and pinned in place by a heavy weight of questions, he didn't move. Theo simply stood there, mouth agape and eyes wide. At length, after Rosalie had sunk into complete stillness, that he spoke.

Each time the priest spoke the name, the ash on Chauhn's face would flinch and change design, leaving Chauhn with his shaking fists and shoulders looking like quite the ghost from a fireside story. Chauhn gulped, his fists still tucked up near his chin, "Aye," he said, sniffling and giving a wheeze, "Aye, 'e is. 'E's m'brother. 'N' don't you try anythin' funny, mister! E's m'brother, a Plague, but 'e's m'brother no matter what! 'E's comin' back t'me."

Sniffling again, Chauhn took a step forward. Not to be intimidating but to step away from the flame that was searing his back. There was a part of his heart screaming, shrilling terrible things and memories, the smell of burnt flesh in the hearth, a question rattling in his brain, asking "Is this what it felt like"? over and over again with increasing intensity until he was able to move away from the fireplace and back into the colder air of the kitchen.

"If'n you try 'n' take 'im away, ahll hurt you good!" Chauhn squeaked, his voice obviously belying the fear in his voice. "Ahm protectin' 'im no matter what!"