Welcome to Gaia! ::

Aysel awoke to a broken, strange sobbing.

"What..." Her eyes slid towards a forest of hips and torsos; whomever wept lay beyond her sight, and she promptly forgot their presence, even as those sobs turned into twisted laughter. Her brows knit together; too much unfamiliarity assaulted her sleep-addled brain, and she withdrew into herself, trying to recall exactly what brought her here.

Yes... That was it. There was a messenger, and so very many guards, more than she had ever seen... She had agreed to a meeting hosted by the Council. She remembered wondering, as she was being escorted, if she had changed her mind, would the guards have let her leave? She was doubtful.

Then, there was the mage. Too politically ignorant to recognize the oddity of his dress, she gazed in wonder at the symbol on his forehead when he crushed her wrist; she had cried out in pain and struggled against him, her heart filling with fear, before everything grew sickeningly bright and she fell, her vision fading to black...

And here she woke. With that exercise, the sleep left her mind, and she felt ready to try to sum up the situation around her. Standing, she looked around, and realized with horror several things at once: Her bag was far lighter than it should have been; a quick check revealed the absence of her Plague. Not far from her, just a few rows down, too many Guardsmen were pointing their weapons at... something; too many people stood in the way for her to see clearly. However, she certainly heard that something when it spoke: "Milord... the Waldgraves have returned... and so have given me the sweet taste of cultist's blood." The name sounded only vaguely familiar, overhead on the streets of her Shyregoadian town with the hushed whisper of someone important, but nevertheless, Aysel shivered. The words and their intonations alone incited her unease.

Finally, from far below, the scent of corruption reached her nose; her eyes fell upon the whole collection of people and Plagues gathered on the stage below, and widened. She had never seen such a collection! Putescos, Excitos, and Anhelos--All of the stages she had seen and heard of displayed there for her to see. There was such a variety... With a pang in her heart, she prayed furiously to any god who might listen to her pitiful pleas that her precious rabbit lay somewhere among them. Some far down part of her smiled wryly; despite all the trouble that thing had brought, she still clung to it dearly. That little piece of her soul supposed it just felt too damn much like giving up.

When the general gave his order, her attention shot back, and she recognized with only slight surprise the shock of red hair that was Sloane. The others on the balcony... Complete strangers. She looked back down at the scene a few rows below and at last caught a glimpse of the mad woman who had, apparently, been such a disruption. "That must be Sanguine... So Lord Yizhaq must be there too..." For a brief moment, she closed her eyes tightly in frustration; just what was going on? What kind of meeting was this? They had asked her to bring her Plague; why do that if they were just going to take it from her?

The cry from Georgie and consequent announcement from the Dean again snapped her to current events. She felt confirmed in her previous assumptions about identity, but... Plague Doctor? Who was he? And, more importantly, Emperor!? His Majesty?! Her cheeks colored lightly; she knew this meeting was approved by him, but she had never expected to see him in person! Even her sparse education on the outside world included him, but she had always seen him as a mythical, godlike figure, something that loved and protected them, but never to be seen or encountered on any kind of close quarters.

Her eyes remained glued to the stage, and her breath caught in a quiet sound of awe as the Emperor advanced to the podium. Despite his cold he exuded, that romantic part of her teenage mind couldn't help but notice with pleasure that their emperor was not an unhandsome man. In fact, he looked quite princely. Perhaps not kingly, but princely for sure. Consequently when the command came to sit, she obeyed immediately, like a well-trained dog, and eagerly awaited his next words.

What she heard next was not what she wanted to hear. Her anticipatory expression shattered, replaced by one of despair. Of course. It was too good to be true. With her luck, there was no way this meeting could have passed untarnished by foul news. Her gaze fell to her shoes, then up to the stage where, somewhere, her rabbit lay, then fell upon the Emperor. The choice that translated, for her, to be between treason and shame was one she did not want to be forced to make. Her eyes grew pleading, silently begging the Emperor to deny the accusation. She could not make that choice.

"Please."

She looked with hope to the man in the audience who interjected, and upon the stage, slightly to the right of him, the corpse of a rabbit lay, its brilliant red eye holding a grotesque reflection of the scene surrounding it.

Clurie couldn't quite follow the tricksy words of the little Plague before him, her poetic turn of phrase was something beyond his normal every day experience of the world, so when it came to understanding the ins and outs of her speech, Clurie found it incredibly difficult to even stay on one side of the moral line. There was a part of him that longed to trust his fellow Plague, for who better to trust? Human or Plague? Clurie had an obvious bias towards the latter. Humans were too emotional, too brash, too stupid. At least, when it came to Plagues, he was in the same boat. He could understand where they came from, for he was in the same position, more or less, give or take. He could hide among them, put himself in their distant and sporadic family. He couldn't do that with Chauhn. Not only was Chauhn different than he, different in ways that Clurie highlighted with every means possible in order to keep them separated, but Chauhn, he knew for sure to be quite the idiot and Clurie was quite tired of his weepy antics.

As if to prove Clurie's point, Chauhn endeavored to seemingly make his idiocy known.

There was much for Chauhn to respond to, his small body leaning towards that of Wickwright, as if being near the man whose steady stance was so firmly planted into the rows of the seat would somehow make steady his own shivering body as well. He was growing more and more stressed. For a boy whose life seemed to be nothing but a wave against the weakening crumbling stone of Chauhn's psyche, he was not well adapted to thinking things through, not when emotions came first, emotions that held influence first over thought, for feelings of fear and wariness were what kept a boy alive on the streets. Sure, he was growing up now, a young man at the brink of adulthood, but he had grown upon a different route that most others. He wasn't quite at the place where he ought to be. So it was that Chauhn looked with deepening dread towards the bloody Lady who collapsed before Yizhaq's feet, murmuring incoherently before she fell apart and into laughter, aimless manic laughter that, to Chauhn, was hauntingly familiar. His own voice had made a laugh like that before, once upon a time.

And just as quickly as she was brought to stand before him, so was she taken away, ripped from his Lord's comforting presence and into the cold arms of the soldiers. Chauhn looked on in horror, knowing all to well that such movements would only prompt a sharp and strong action from his lord. He had seen the man come to his own defense, and he could only imagine what would come to pass after seeing someone he wished to protect torn literally right from his grip. If he had gone out of his way to berate Jin Ho after his failure to watch over Chauhn in his absence, what would he do to stand up against the guards that would pull away a bleeding woman from Yizhaq's open grip?

Chauhn didn't have much time to even imagine that because, in the span of only a few seconds, another voice had split the tense air. It made Chauhn's blood run cold. "Oh no..." was all that Chauhn could mutter, his eyes snapping upwards toward the balcony where a very familiar figure hung, shouting. "What are...Oh no."

Clurie also heard that voice, how could he not? It was a voice that both he and Chauhn had grown accustomed to hearing, the voice interrupting their squabbles, the voice announcing the readiness of their meager breakfast, and the voice that they had murmured solemnly with when either of the Clemmings were put out with one another. It was the voice of their dear friend Georgie Malt that rang over the raucous buzz of the crowd. It made Clurie's spine snap straight, his arms reaching out to gather all the tiny Excitos that had gathered around him and into his arms, prompting them to take hold on him. He held Hopkin and Lettie close, Chayelle as well and the little glowing form that was Nella. Any other Exicto that gathered near was also welcomed into his arms. There was a thickness in the air that reminded Clurie of the moment when he was still young and small, like they were, the moment before Chauhn snapped. Clurie had gathered the stunted Excitos in their collection close to him, dragged them into his arms after he had grown, as if holding him would comfort not just them, but himself as well. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, and if he had felt a ghost of it before, he was feeling its ghostly hands seize upon his neck now. His face twisted into a worried frown, his brows furrowing still deeper as he looked upon little Armaud.

He tried to speak, but he couldn't bring himself to muster a word. Whatever he was trying to say was quickly guillotined by the voice of Georgie, rising over the small voice of the boy Emperor. An Ultimatum. He had announced an ultimatum, one that, despite his twisted and tangled ties with Chauhn, made Clurie's gut contort into wiggling knots of horror. Immediately, his blackened eyes snapped towards Chauhn, his being crackling with anticipation of what he was sure to come, the tenfold worry for his dumb Grimm, for such an ultimatum promised not just debate, but complete and entirely foolish confrontation from the Last Clemmings.

There was no doubt in Chauhn's mind, not when it came to Georgie. After losing his stability with Yizhaq and subsequently being forced from the comfort of the Fellowship's ranks during the chaos of the north, Georgie Malt had been all that Chauhn could cling to, the only comfort and voice of wisdom, the only one who would give him forgiveness along with direction and guidance. The amount of things that Georgie had done for Chauhn were immeasurable, and he owed his life many times over to the Malt. To see him pressed against the balcony, struggling against arms, screaming words Chauhn could understand only as for truth, was a harsh kick in the gut. What he actually said, however, was a kick in the teeth.

Abandon your Plague to the care of the Empire or brand yourself a traitor.

Chauhn's immediate reaction to such a choice was too complicated for him to get out with a single scream. Even as beside him, Wickwright advocated for peace, Chauhn burst with panic. He knew his answer already to such a question, whether it be the Emperor's true intent or not, his future intention, and that was a concrete and irreversible "NO!" which burst forth from the boy with such ferocity that his tangled swell of emotions snagged hold of his innate magic. It was a problem, or was it an unfortunate side effect, that plagued Chauhn whenever his emotions breached a certain level, something he was unable to control, that when he screamed his voice beckoned forth the swelling strength of trees and greenery, warping life into branches and vines. However, something was wrong. Not wrong with Chauhn, but rather wrong with this place, for what happened when Chauhn screamed was that his magic rather imploded, caught within him like his entire being had been strapped in a vice. His magic did not work in such a place, not like he intended for his magic to activate at all, but there were stronger fields set into effect that kept his unconscious reactions tethered and chained. Instead, Chauhn doubled forward, leaning onto the seats before him, choking violently on a burst of leaves which wheezed pitifully from his mouth in troves.

Even still, he tried to move, do something, speak, scream, show in every way shape or form his extreme opinion on the subject at hand. "No!" he cried again, muffled by the leaves in his mouth, which he tried to spit and cough free from his throat, "NO! You cannot take him! He's all I have left! You cannot take my Plague! He's mine and mine alone! I will not abandon him! Don't force this choice upon us! Don't! He's mine and I will never let the Empire take him from me!"

Again he coughed, and he looked terrified, looking towards his beloved Plague where he knelt on the stage, surrounded with other Plagues, holding them in his arms as much as Chauhn wished he could hold again Clurie as a little Excito and apologize for all that he had done. He made a promise now and that was to protect Clurie no matter what, and that did not entail handing him over like some possession to the Empire. Steeling himself, gathering strength from his fear and offense at the proposition of such a deal, Chauhn cried out again, "Clurie's like a brother to me! I will not abandon him, I will not so freely give him away! He's like a brother!"

Clurie, on the other hand, reeled from just how stupid Chauhn could be. He expected such a reaction from him, but at the same time, he couldn't help feel the burning flash of shame that tore itself across his face like a fresh wound.

Things, from this point onward, would not look well for the Clemmings.

Mini update
(This isn't the official ORP update. Carry on!)

Amidst the warbling, thickening madness, the rest of the audience remains stoic and quiet. Excitos bundled around Clurie give no word, no say, simply bunching themselves around his feet like tiny peddles alongside the shore. Other Anhelos keep themselves astray, a spark in their eyes watching the more human crowd as if they belonged there instead. There was a rift, and such was obvious.

A group of three stand in unison near the front of the audience, after exchanging looming stares at one another. They seem young, but elegant, and the tallest of them speaks out, "Emperor Rine, take our's-- please. We've no need for them."

It seems an Anhelo notices the voice and cowers near the corner of the stage, shaking his head, form shivering with fright. The Imperial Guard remains still for only moments, until the boy replies again, "They're items-- that silver man should know, shouldn't he? Take them, we've no need of them."

Issues are recalled from the back of the theatre, where the Councilmen have left, and though the Guardsmen trailing along the row of the stage seem reluctant, they quietly march towards the items and take three-- a pouch of coins, a necklace of feathers, and a bottle of poison.

The three Grimms nod, confirming their possession over them, and as the Guardsmen take them away they sit once again.

In light of the bleak scenario, several more rise, with the intent to speak.

"If it's for the best, please, Emperor, take mine."

"Those arguing against it refuse to see, do they not? That we were sprung with the responsibility of a vague life! I want nothing to do with it."

"I could never fathom being a traitor-- please, take mine away!"

"Just-- be careful with her, please."

One by one, Guardsmen by Guardsmen, items are taken away, and with a blistering wail a young Excito stumbles away from the crowd of Plagues to be taken away as well. She looks back at the Plagues and says, in her meek voice, "Perhaps a life with the Empire shall be tenfold better for Plagues such as us... Farewell!"

Other Grimms await to speak, many having risen.

Toshua, having just handed his handkerchief to the sobbing woman next to him, was completely caught off-guard by the incredible amount of activity that was taking place right before his eyes. He almost felt the need to laugh – hysterically or for what reason, he could not be sure. This, this whole thing was certainly turning out much more different than he had anticipated. He had not thought that he would actually meet the Emperor; he had not thought he would meet other Grimms and Plagues. There had been lots he had not thought would happen, and everything was proving him wrong. Toshua didn't feel good at all.

As the Dean of the Council walked onto the stage, Tosh's eyes were glued to something else for the first time since waking up in the strange auditorium. This was his parent's idol – Anne-Marie and Tomas gushed of Sir Sedgwyck Kirkaldy at dinner and at lunch and all the time. This was a figure that Toshua had grown up with, a figure that he felt he knew. He propped his chin up in his hand, staring dazedly at the man. Goodness. Tosh heard the "All rise," a second too late, and fumbled as he stood up, back straight and eyes facing forward, anticipating the entrance of the Emperor as everyone else was.

And then he saw the bloody woman, and everything started to sink into a whirlpool of confusion.

Nothing she said made sense to Toshua – the Waldgraves? The sweet taste of blood? He fidgeted in his position, looking to and fro at the others to see if they knew of the going ons and what they meant. And then he saw a boy roughly around the same age as him speak and dear God, Toshua was starting to realize that he may have gotten himself into a bigger mess than he'd originally thought. The Emperor walked in. He, though small, carried an aura of rigidness and terror, and Toshua Green was scared. The Emperor's words were muttered, his eyes averted, and the only thing that was clear was what the boy from before had said.

Abandon your Plague to the care of the Empire or brand yourself a traitor.

No. "No, no, no, no," Toshua muttered under his breath, looking upon the unfolding scene with unmasked horror. He had no time to spare to think of other people. Everything that was happening around him was flying by in a haze, or a flash. The older man – Wickwright Finch, Hopkin's Grimm, spoke calmly, said something that Toshua, for the life of him, did not hear. That boy – Chaun Clemmings, if he remembered correctly – was spitting out leaves. This would have been very, very strange under normal circumstances. Now Toshua barely blinked. Others acted; offering up their Plagues in return to not be labelled as a traitor. Tosh thought about it for a minute, just letting them have his pumpkin, but the thought nauseated him and he couldn't. The pumpkin was the only thing that had ever been truly his. He'd never felt so alive in his life as he had after finally receiving the pumpkin – there were new adventures to be had everyday, laughs, expectations, and he couldn't possibly give it up, no matter what consequences lay in store for him.

"NO, you can't! It's mine!" the boy bellowed. And then, as a rash, teenage boy of fifteen, Toshua did the only thing he could think of. He made a wild running break for his pumpkin. Maybe he could reach it in time. Maybe a miracle would happen. Maybe if he'd had the logic and sense of someone who had lived life through and through, he would've thought it over. But he didn't. And so he ran instead.

Mini update
(This isn't the official ORP update. Carry on!)

As noise rises, the pace of the Guardsmen increases doubly so. Those who stand barely get to utter a word before their Plagues, one by one, are ushered out of the scene, away from where the Councilmen left, through where the Emperor arrived. Items were heard being haplessly dropped outside of the theater, though the cacophonous surrounding of noise might otherwise have blocked such sound. When the deed was done, the Grimm-no-longer would sit down.

This happened in a matter of seconds, perhaps minutes, and Georgie stared onward at the crowd with a strange, petrified look on his face, not one of bewilderment but of knowing. Of course-- some would give up their Plagues, and more than readily so. To take care of a life-- what arduous consequence was that when many of these humans had lost their loved ones, their entire lives, to this object, this Plagued being that harbored but ill will in the presence of even the Emperor?

Toshua would run up towards the stage, and get but a pointed glare at the surrounding Guardsmen looming over the items. Soldiers as small and young as he would monotonously point their rifles towards him, though their expressions spoke otherwise-- the youngest one would whisper to the young Green, "Please, go back to your seat. Killing is not the Imperial Guard's intention."

Half the stage remained, and none other would stand. The items that remained looked fragile without their other companions, and the sea of Excitos shrunk to perhaps a few dozen. The silent Anhelos that had once occupied Clurie's presence had shrunk to but two, a few having given up their lives for another's sake.

The duo stared at Clurie, as if anticipating something, staring intently at him as if he were the last Plague they would see. Excitos leaning around the warmth of other Excitos were shivered and crying, like the small children expectations told them to be, and for that moment Armaud seemed to look complacent, a serious frown rooted to her features, as she waited in turn during the calamity of rushed shouts.

Complaints upon complaints mounted, and yet, the Emperor's strange plan seemed to be working.

The thief remained in his seat by the aisle, having performed the compulsory stand-and-sit routine that his Emperor favored.

His Emperor.

Was he supposed to feel obedience? Was he supposed to feel love, fealty for this patron of his state, distant protector of his city? Was he supposed to feel fear?

He felt nothing. But that wasn't altogether unusual for Artemis Kalends.

What was unusual was how much watching the parade of Grimms and Plagues surrender themselves, sunder their bond spurred his ire.

This pretty little boy in blue had given them all a choice: compliance or treason. These people, these Grimms, had something extraordinary on them that they were being asked to give up. Kalends had made it his specialty to identify cherished items-- those were his favored targets-- and from many of their owners' movements, he could tell that those that came forward did not want to release their objects into the guard. They valued those money bags, pieces of crockery, necklaces, more than gold even though they would have been hard pressed to fetch a few shillings for them normally. It had always fascinated Kalends that things that looked so cheap and were so cheap were so hard for people to part with.

Yet here, those artifacts were easily given up. It wasn't the fifty shillings, that he knew. Something else had persuaded them.

A desire for freedom? Perhaps. Kalends snickered to himself. Oh yes, he knew the feeling of being caught, of being powerless to defend himself. These were not experiences that he was particularly proud of or wanted to return to, but he had known them long before today's debacle. These people had no knives pressed to their throats, no physical cruelty shown to them, yet they still relinquished their possessions.

Out of love, maybe? Loyalty, perhaps? No, not all of them. A love for their Emperor would abate the partings, the pleas to please take care of them well.

Fear? Of treason?

What could a thief, a criminal, someone the Imperial Guard was just itching to drag away into the dungeons, care about treason? He committed crimes every day. What could he know of loyalty and treason?

He looked at his satchel, slumped forlornly on the stage. The gauze was still next to it, but all around it the crowd of items had thinned. Kalends knew he was no Grimm, had no mysterious power or status like the rest of these people gathered-- he was, after all, just unlucky enough to have stolen something plagued at some point-- but he would never give that bag up.

He knew something about loyalty.

When he had received that bag, it had been as the result of hard training, the mark of the end of his apprenticeship and his entry into the ranks of journeyman thief. But most importantly...

A memory of his mentor's voice echoed in his head: "Artemis, you who I found on the Kalends of the coldest month, who I have trained, you will be a master thief. I know it. But, a word of advice, from one thief to another. You may steal rooms of treasure from this blessed, rat-infested city, but know this now: no matter how hard you try, there will always be one object that you will never be able to steal..."

Memory won out-- Kalends was no longer in the auditorium, no longer surrounded by people. He was where he had lived as a young boy, in a ramshackle old house on Sickle Street, above a locksmith's shop.

He remembered his heart pounding at the time. He remembered sweating palms, biting down on his cheek to keep his face blank, and the petrifying thought that this was another test, another riddle. But clearest was the memory of his mentor's wink and chuckle before the old man pulled out a newer version of his satchel, and presented it to the boy that Kalends was.

"And that is one that is freely given." The satchel pressed into his hands, soft, his first gift. "Congratulations, Artemis."

The flood of memory left him as quickly as it had come, vanishing like dust motes scurrying through sun to shadow. At once, he was again the seasoned thief, he of the practiced hands and blade. He wasn't getting emotional at a time like this. He was beyond that.

Kalends snorted derisively, but it was more meant as a rebuke to himself than those gathered.

When he did speak at last, his words were soft but cutting, a light blade honed to a biting shine. "What choice have we? In forcing us to choose, you force us to commit either treason against you or treason against ourselves. Highness, though you do not dirty your hands with this, you have made traitors of us all."

Artemis Kalends knew very little about treason. But about loyalty, he knew enough.

States, cities, countries-- they could banish him, all of them, and he wouldn't bat an eye. But he would not betray that memory of a dusty shop, would not part with that satchel for fifty shillings when it was battered and priceless, would not lie to himself for an easy out.

His loyalties were as they always were: balanced on a dagger's edge, always tilted in favor of himself.

They were ripped apart.

Stripped from their titles, from their positions, from their rights, Clurie watched with dread as their numbers diminished. The bodies that Clurie could possibly hide behind were lessening, and the strength that they had once had as a whole was drastically guillotined. As Excitos were plucked away from around him, Clurie pushed his body backwards with the kick of his feet against the stage, hoarding those that chose to cling to him away from the dreadful snatching hands of the guardsmen. He turned his shoulder, attempting his best to protect those in his arms, which thankfully all belonged to Grimms who refused to give up their Plagues without a clearer word and, hopefully, a fight. When guards approached too close for Clurie's liking, the Plague puffed out his cheeks, making them glow with a dangerous burst of ember. Bred within him, born unto him from the ashes of the dead Clemmings he had taken life from, was the deep rooted sense of protection, of longing to belong, and Clurie had decided now that he belonged with the Plagues, and it was these fellow Plagues that he intended to protect, like a Clemmings was supposedly prone to do. Wholeheartedly and bullheadedly defend their own, that was what a Clemmings did, and Clurie blanched at the thought, his gut twisting with panic. No, it wasn't just a trait of the Clemmings. It was something that anyone with a heart would do and Clurie knew he had one by the way his chest ached like punch in the ribs. He wasn't like a Clemmings, the Clemmings just had hearts, bleeding ones at that. Close to his neck, he kept Hayat, almost setting her upon his shoulder. He looked down to little Hopkin in his arms, little Nella, both of whom were clutching onto his ashen skin with horror, though Hopkin was rather quiet and Nella was anything but. Clurie had to gather her back into his grip, tutting at her underneath his hitching breath as he kept watch for any guard that would stray near.

His eyes passed over a pair of green ones. Chauhn and he had connected gazes for one frightening second, and, to Clurie's surprise, he was able to understand everything in the boy with just a second's worth of staring. Chauhn was terrified, and it was a similar terror that Clurie had seen many times before, when he had almost died as an Excito, drenched and wet, when they had been nearly attacked by Obscuvians and when Chauhn anticipated that something had changed in little Phasmas Clurie's mind. Even now, as a Quietus, Clurie had seen that look steadily return and exceed the strength of that look Chauhn had before. He knew more than just familiarity, though, he knew what Chauhn would do. He was prone to stupid stunts, one of which he was pulling now by coughing up leaves, a hint towards his backfired magic. In a few moments' worth of time, he might do something even stupider, like the boy who had just at the guards. Clurie had almost expected it to be Chauhn to do something like that first, and he had to admit he was relieved that the boy with guns in his face was someone else entirely, though he felt pity for the panicking Grimm.

He couldn't let Chauhn get like that.

Stepping onto his feet, pulling himself up from the ground with his arms full of whatever Excitos had decided to cling to him, Clurie stood as tall as he could manage, gathering his voice within him.

"Chauhn!" he cried to him, "Shut up, will you? You're not making anything better!"

Around him, Clurie watched as other Anhelos' their faces red with a flurry of emotions, leaned upon love in order to sacrifice themselves for their Grimm's safety. They left, one by one, until only he and two others were left behind. Clurie stumbled to them, trying to find comfort in their numbers, but the way they looked at him made him worry. He didn't let it show though, instead, he twisted his haggard mouth into a worried frown, nodding at them to try and steel their nerves, when at the same time, he found himself transfixed. He stared after them with his black eyes swelling. He wondered. Just how could they get out of this situation now? Just how could they solve it without being labeled traitors? There was enough trouble for Chauhn, his being mistrusted by the Fellowship for his wobbling sanity, the Cultists wandering, eating up whatever weak soul they could find, his abandonment and his desperate clinging onto the Malt's caravan. The last thing they needed was to earn another enemy, especially one being as strong and all encompassing as the Emperor. They simply couldn't afford such a fall and yet, here he was, bold and thoughtless Clemmings, leaping up to take the option that would surely destroy him and Clurie both.

Why did he have to get stuck with the most idiotic Grimm in existence?

"Chauhn, don't be too quick, you'd be killing yourself either way! Think!" he had caught his Grimm's attention, and the look on his face was growing steadily more and more panicked. At least he had grown silent. "You're the last Clemmings, aren't you? Perhaps it would be better if I..."

"No! Clurie, don't even! They'll take you away! Why don't you shut up too, huh? Just be quiet! I'll get to you!" Chauhn's scream to his Plague was desperate, and he was already trying to push his way past Wickwright in order to get closer to his Plague. The boy looked up at the Boy Emperor with eyes of fear, eyes of abuse and mistrust. This was not the kind of emperor that Chauhn was expecting. This wasn't an emperor he could love if he would so simply make so many of his own people suffer.

Clurie shouted again, trying to quell his Grimm, "Chauhn! Please! If there's no other way to get out of this..." The unsaid offer shot through the air like an arrow into Chauhn's heart. Apparently the offer did nothing but stoke the fire of Chauhn's anguish, as the boy was attempting to shout back again and forced another crumpled flurry of leaves to come spilling free from his mouth. The young Augur held his chest and tried to stick his hand into his mouth, raking out what leaves he could before he choked himself to a silent more permanent than the one afforded by his backfiring magic. No matter what happened, Chauhn would be done for, either condemned by the Emperor and brought in to be tortured and killed for treason, or to live life without Clurie, to live without purpose, Chauhn would die in the inside. Only one option provided a physical chance of surviving, and if there was even the smallest chance that Chauhn could grow up and get over it, then Clurie would take it. He wasn't sure why he was fighting for his Grimm's survival, but there was certainly something different working in Clurie's motives now, something more than just hate. Still trying to keep his eyes in contact with his Quietus, the boy shook his head madly, a solemn threat, a warning for Clurie not to play the nobler as he often did in his fireside stories.

The Quietus returned the look as intensely as he could manage with little Excitos clinging all around him. "I'll do it if it means keeping you from making stupid decisions!" he shouted back.

"NO! Clurie, NO! Just wait!"

"I will!"

"CLURIE!"

Giving up with his Grimm, Clurie let his shoulders loosen in defeat, nodding at Chauhn very so slightly before he turned away. Not only were Chauhn's cries getting to him, but the sound of the sniffling sobbing Excitos and Anhelos around him. He tried to beckon them all together, dropping down onto one knee, opening his arms. There wasn't much that he could do for his kindred, but burn a man and bury him, Clurie was going to do what he could. First, what he could do was offer comfort and solidarity, looking towards the other two Anhelos.

"Come on, he told them, his tone pleading and angry, "We've got to stick together! Get over here and help me." Then, looking down to Armaud, Clurie's eyes widened with gravity, his mouth set into a firm frown. Perhaps there was a third choice. No, not perhaps. It had been there all along. His eyes fell upon the little brown form of one particular Excito.

"...Armaud. Help."