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Chauhn would've reached out to help Georgie from the side of the tree but he was too absorbed in his thoughts. For a split moment there, he was completely lost in memories, hearing the echo of a voice scratch out syllables somewhere just beyond his hearing. But there was another voice, a real voice, just a few feet away from him, speaking, asking something. Chauhn snapped out of his reveries as if startled back by the snap of a twig. He returned his gaze to Georgie and blatantly ignored his question, the obvious sound of sympathy in his voice.

"Clurie's got darker hair than mine. But mine used to be light. I just got older," Chauhn said, rubbing again at his face so his skin was again lost in a smudge of black. His trip to the river was fruitless. He didn't seem to notice though, he was too busy describing his younger brother, "Though, ever since I started chimney sweeping he says that my hair is growing darker because of the soot. I tell him I wash it out whenever I can, but he doesn't believe it all comes out."

The boy shifted his boots against the dirt and sand, "Does your brother so things like that to you? I'm sure he says weird things like that."

Chauhn was going to continue his strand about brothers and their wayward ways of getting into mischief and causing nothing but grief for their older siblings, when the eerie voice leaped into their conversation. At first, he had no idea where it was coming from and he had to glance around the nearby trees, before he followed Georgie's gaze to the boughs above. There was a boy up there! He looked around their age, young, and he had very light hair. Chauhn gave a gulp. He was trying vainly to connect with his eyes, but he was simply too far away to really see more than the general features of his face.

The young Sweep stepped back, more out of surprise than fear, and slapped his hands to his chest. The pouch of ashes on his chest was wiggling with such great excitement that Chauhn feared it would bounce and leap like a trapped bird right off his chest. He also feared that it's movement would be seen, no doubt it was already seen by the other lad! His eyes were locked on the trembling item, seeming to peer through his fingers as he fought to hold it secure to his chest.

Chauhn furrowed his brows, taking instead the position of a protective older brother. He showed no fear and the surprise he had quickly skulked away from the incoming steel of bravery. "It is. And you must be Georgie's ungrateful sharp-tongued brother."

He stood his ground, locking his knees firmly beneath his body, his hands upon his breast and necklace.

Chauhn hardly did flinch as the other boy casually made his way down the tree branches, descending as would a king, hardly a falter in his step. Each step was so assured, so firmly placed, but it did nothing to stir Chauhn from his place. If anything, it granted him more steel to greet him with. It was strength meeting strength here, each strength from a different source, but strength all the same.

His words meant little to Chauhn, mentions of news and doctors doing little for his basic street knowledge. He knew as much as he could to get by, he knew the worth of money and he knew the right and wrongs of the street. Chauhn knew of the plague and of its effects. He had little need for anything else really, and whatever rumors he might've heard, whatever stories, quickly slid off him like oil to water. He needed what would help him survive and that's all he had room for. So when this stranger spoke of doctors, it was no wonder that Chauhn did little more than furrow a brow in confusion.

"O'course, ah do. Sleep with it, beside it, 'n it, ev'ryday, sir. What does that 'ave to do wit' an'thing?" Chauhn questioned in return, "...And your name?"

Keeping his eyes on the approaching figure, Chauhn was hardly ignorant of the pouch hanging on his breast. He clasped his hand over it tightly, quelling the wiggle as best he could. In his mind, he begged and willed for his younger brother to stop wiggling. For a split moment there, he couold almost feel his younger brother standing beside him, shifting endlessly and whining for a change of scene.

Clurie...

"Y'ave manners, don't ya? What's your name?"

At his first comment, Chauhn stiffened, the corners of his mouth pulling down into a stern frown. Filth is as filth comes? Chauhn never did like riddles or fancy words. He had a hard time keeping what words he did now straight and carefully pronounced, a thing he wasn't quite good at in the first place. He let the comment slide by, his hand still defensively hanging onto the pendant upon his chest.

He watched as Adal fell to the ground as easily as might a bird, landing lightly on his feet and straightening himself back out with the ease of bent knees. The street urchin still stood his ground, moving only to breathe and twitch the muscles on his face to show his displeasure at this boy's response to his brother. Clurie, nor any of his siblings, would ever talk to him like that. In fact, it was quite a shock to him, that they would be brothers at all, what with Georgie being so calm and kind and Adal being so sharp. But what surprised him most was not the attitude with which the Malt brothers contended each other with, but the very eyes of the brother before him.

His eyes...

In all his days on the street, Chauhn had never seen eyes such as these, these swirls of white and black. It was here, in the midst of Adal's languid bow, that Chauhn finally faltered in his standing and took a step back, his face displaying uncertainty in face of this strange being.

"Adal Malt," Chauhn echoed, testing the name out on his tongue, "If'n your interests are places to sleep, somethin' to eat, 'n work to find then we mi' 'ave somethin' 'n common."

Then, Chauhn couldn't help himself, curiosity overriding his sense of manners, "...Wha' are you, Adal?"

The Plague's words rattled within him, crawling into his ears and filling him, as if his head were held underwater. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't move. All he could see was the memorizing swirl of his eyes, the pound of his words as they, one by one, hammered against him like waves. All the meanwhile Adal spoke, Chauhn tried to formulate words against him, something to say in retort, as if he were trying to defend himself. He wasn't being attacked however, at least, Chauhn didn't think that he was being attacked. It was just a string of words, weaving themselves into a single horrid description of burning...Burning flesh. Summoned from the dark recesses of his mind, the imagine of his little brother's burning body returned to Chauhn in full clarity. He could see the curled form resting within the cradle of meager firewood and sticks, the way the skin darkened, the way the buboes littering his skin popped, sizzled, and curled in upon themselves as burning crumpled skin. how the hair, every strand, lit up with sparks, bequeathing little burning Clurie's head with a halo of bright flame. He could see his little brother's eyes, the blackening eyelids peeled back by flame, the bright green green eyes that he himself shared, like staring at an image of himself in the hearth.

Helpless to the wiles of his body, Chauhn, while still standing straight and buffered against Adal's terrifying approach, couldn't help but begin shaking, overwhelmed by the re-instilled memory. His jaw trembled, his teeth ever so slightly chattering.

He was speaking again, speaking after that terribly long silence, a silence in which Chauhn could hear the pop and sigh of his brother's burning. the Plague was speaking of his pouch...His brother's ashes...His brother. Clurie.

His hand tightened around the pouch.

"This is my little brother," Chauhn said, his voice a shadow of what it was before, "Wha'....Wha' are ya talkin' about? Reincarnation? Ah don't know wha' yer talkin' about, Adal. Ah don't."

Was it your brother?

Clurie?

Clurie. His brother. How did he die. Chauhn's steel was quickly eroding away, hammered at by the words of Adal, and he found his shoulders slumping and pinching by his shoulders instead. He knees weakened and the feeling he felt of watching his brother burn, returned to him, seemingly tenfold. He felt sick.

Even as Georgie stepped in, distracting the Plague from the casual interrogation, Chauhn was already trying to formulate an answer to his many questions. He had the answers, the descriptions, it was just the matter of expelling them, finding the voice with which to speak. His mouth moved soundlessly for a while, even as Georgie sternly spoke with Adal.

How did Clurie die?

With his hand still grasped over the pouch, the very ashes in question, Clurie, himself, Chauhn took a deep breath. If he focused on them, he could still feel the ashes moving, kicking with life. If he focused hard enough, he could hear Clurie, feel his hands tugging at the hem of his clothes.

"Clurie died from the plague, like the rest o' my siblings. We 'ere trapped 'n the house, boarded 'n by planks of wood, 'n' 'e was already infected by my brother's 'n' sister's illness. My older sister 'n' Ah watched 'im die on the other side of the room. We sang songs to 'im as he passed 'n' counted the buboes that popped on his body. When he finally ebbed away, my big sister 'n' Ah used chairs to push 'im into the fireplace. 'N' we burned him. We thought it would protect us from his plague. But my sister caught it too. She was infected by the Plague. So she sen' me out of the house, through the chimney, still dark with Clurie's ashes. 'N' before ah left, she told me to take the ashes of m' brother. Because Clemmings stay together. 'N' ah needed to protect m' little brother. She put them 'n this pouch, 'n' ah climbed into the chimney 'n' left her to die. Clurie is all ah have left of my family. Ah need to protect 'im. Because Clemmings stay together. Clemmings stay together."

After expelling his black history, the reason for his fall from grace, Chauhn fell into an uneasy silence. He willed himself away from the present world, focusing instead on just wiping those horrid memories from his head. The retelling had brought them back so vividly, that for a split moment, he was having trouble distinguishing reality from recollection. He lifted his hands up and pressed his palms to his eyes, frowning as the pressure distracted his senses. He had to be strong. He had to continue on. He had to protect Clurie. Those were his innate charges. The pressure drew him back into the present tense and he found himself able open his eyes without the ghostly presence of his brother and his burning hearth. He could see the cool shade-captured sand and roots burrowing in swirls through, the crippled curl of the brittle trees and their branches. He was here, he was back, and the soft leather pouch upon his chest was teeming with life.

He lifted his bright new green leaf eyes and focused them on Adal, returned to his steeled self as he lowered his hands. He traced his fingers tenderly against the ridges of the pouch, the faintest hint of a smile gracing his sooty cheeks.

The pouch seemed to be tickled by the touch and wiggled, a quite distinct jolt that any onlooker could see. "Ah know," Chauhn said, his smile deepening and revealing dimples on his blackened face, "'E's still with me. 'E likes warmth and 'e talks with me. Ah'm waitin' for 'im to come back."

Chauhn took a step forward to Adal, closing the distance between them. Cupping his hands around the pouch and lifting it from his chest for the Plague's inspection, the older Clemmings brother asked pleadingly, his voice strong with the plaintive demand, "'Ow can ah bring 'im back to me, Mister Adal? Can you 'elp my little brother return?" He was desperate. At one glance, anyone could tell that he was the kind of person who would do anything for his brother to return. It was a blind obsession, a dangerous vow of love. If he were given an impossible task, pluck a star from the tapestry of black sky or climb colossi, he would do it, even if it led to his downfall.

Chauhn Clemmings was just that kind of person.

Chauhn watched Adal with unblinking eyes. There was a small part in his mind that played out the possibilities, the magical and supernatural, albeit made-up, prowess of Adal, who, which a wink of his swirled eye, could draw forth the form of his brother from the collected ashes. He could very well see his expression change from shock to adoration, he could see Clurie launch himself into his arms. It would be like nothing ever happened.

Save for the cold hard fact that his halfhearted daydream wasn't meant to be. He knew better than to lose himself to such flights of hope and fancy. It was a fool's chase. So Chauhn hardly even blinked when his thoughts were dashed upon the rocks of reality. Instead, he lowered the pouch of ashes to his chest and nodded, almost shamefully.

"Ahm sorry," he said at length, lifting his face up with no trace of the defeat he must have felt within, "Ah guess ah just got a lit'l carried away. Ah can be a smidgen bit on the dull side sometimes." Chauhn gave an apologetic laugh.

He sure felt guilty now...Clemmings were proud people. What was he doing acting like such a child before these two others? What was he hoping to gain? This show of emotion was, by no means, any way to uphold the Clemmings way. He had to be strong.

Straightening his back and setting himself again with steel, just like he did before with the first moments of Adal's appearance, Chauhn cleared his throat. "Ah will do anythin' for Clurie." He said, giving an affirming nod to back the statement. To Adal's iron-fused musing, Chauhn gave a sniff and replied, "Ah believe, ah can, and ah will do anything to bring Clurie back. He WILL come back. "