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This boy was not dumb by any means. He entertained her thoughts of rescue and storming the stage, but knew just how risky and unsound those thoughts really were. Maeve gave her full attention to Kalends, letting her focus on him instead of the stage as he spoke.

"Do you have a better plan?"

Before Maeve could even entertain the thought of a response for the boy, the sound of a rifle going off broke through the yelling anarchy of the crowd. The mercenary quickly broke eye contact with Kalends and searched for the origin of the noise. A man stood claiming that it was magic of some sort, but the sound was distinct.

Pandemonium ensued. A rifle at the Emperor, shouting amongst Plagues of notes and then-- two Anhelos on the stage finally lashing out against the guardsmen. Maeve never had witnessed a Plague use any sort of power before and this was quite the display. Her eyes were naturally drawn to the violence. They both killed quickly, but were killed just as quickly in return. Some of the Excitos panic and begin to scatter and flee from the stage. Maeve winced. The deaths had not bothered her, but this had. She worried that they would be shot and killed indiscriminately like their bigger counterparts.

Her hand reached out wordlessly, open-palmed in front of Kalends, as if to stay him. Any action, she feared, would be an action against the Emperor at this point. It was a standoff between sides, and Maeve did not want to get caught up in it.

The theater exploded.

Exploded with sound, with movement, with action, the theaters walls were now alive with the sound of cries, screams, and gasps, the rustle of audience members as those who had given up were pushed back into their seats by the owners who rushed forward to join in the chaos. Amid it all, was one boy, green-eyed, wide-eyed, and staring in shock as a familiar pair of golden orbs shone out over the shoulder of the boy emperor. Chauhn couldn't believe it. Adal was not only here, as he should expect after seeing Georgie, but Adal was currently tangled in something far more complicated than a simple troubled boy like Chauhn could understand. Still, there had been months of journeying with Adal and Georgie, endless amounts of time where they harnessed and learned to control one another, learned to trust, and Chauhn, at that moment, despite the severity of their situation, could trust Adal. Whatever it was he was doing, wearing the garb of the officers, digging his fingers deep into a plot that was certainly someone else's pie, Chauhn trusted him. That was enough for him to step forward and instead make his effort known.

Hopping over and clambering across the seats of the pavilion, Chauhn joined the other boy where he confronted the guards, watching as the armed soldiers weakened from the events on stage, their attention divided and panicked as the numbers began turning against them. He sidled up next to the boy, still heaving up emotion through his throat in the form of crackling leaves, trying to cough up words along with them. He was still backfiring, his panic overwhelming him, controlling him, a magic that belched forth whenever he tried to use his voice. Still, he needed to speak, coordinate, he needed to get to Clurie, he needed to help the Malt brothers! Trembling, Chauhn took hold of the boy's shoulder, turning him just enough to look him in the eyes.

"Together," he managed to cough, "We..break the formation...together! Run! We're fast enough...We're small enough...We can get the Plagues." But time didn't offer a consensus or a discussion of plans, there was no time for that, events were quickly unfolding, crumbling, breaking all around them, and Chauhn became reckless with noble intention. He clapped the boy's shoulder, nodding at him, pulling a fistful of leaves from his mouth before he turned his eyes ahead and called upon his youth. Lessons from living as an orphan in the streets bequeathed him with dexterity and speed enough to dive through crowds while being chased, and it was that same strength that beckoned him forward. Chauhn Clemmings kicked back on his heel and, hoping the other boy followed him, ducked, pushed, and rammed his shoulder into the guards.

On the other side, pushing away from the panic surrounding the people-turned bars of their cage, was Clurie Clemmings, practically drowning in the little Excitos that sought refuge on his arms and person. His face was souring, though not at the little hands grabbing hold of his pants and sleeves, but rather, at the familiar shape of Adal standing tall behind the emperor. Questions regarding Adal's role filled his mind, made him frown in thought, trying to understand just what the Malts were doing there. They had been quiet the days proceeding the event, said not a word when the Clemmings ventured off to refill their water canisters. It had to be another one of those quiet duties expected of them as the Plague doctor's assistants. Still, the reasoning did nothing to quell Clurie's nerves. He was violently protective of those he had come to find shelter in, especially those who helped him when it came to dealing with his basket case of a Grimm. It had to be a feeling instilled in him from his time as an Excitos, a feeling born with him from the original Clurie. He had only so much attention to give to little Armaud's directions, glancing down at Chayele who now held the strange pebble of answer, starting to ask, "What do we do, little one--" before he was distracted by a burst of motion. His face of bitter concern turned panicked, his black eyes widening in terror as the two same Anhelos he was begging to come near him to help, helped in a completely different manner. They came near, muttering, mumbling wildly, fretful and panicked. Clurie tried to raise his voice to help.

"Our Grimms are loyal," Clurie confirmed, and he tried to speak hope into the Infitalis, a small Plague, rather like himself, "Do what you can to help the Grimms of the others, these Excitos and Putescos, help me gather them-" But then they started sprinting away. Clurie, snapping into motion tried to lunge after them, his mind finally understanding their intent, why their eyes were focused on the Guards, the Advisers, but he was weighed down with the many little bodies of the Excitos. He tried to pull them off of him gently, shuck them away carefully to the wood panels of the stage while at the same time yearning to stop his fellows, yelping, crying out after the Anhelos, stretching his dark arms after them, screaming. "No! No, what are you doing...?! Leave it to Adal! Don't! DON'T! That's stupid, don't do that! DON'T, PLEASE...HEALTH AND LIVING, NO!"

He watched them die.

Clurie had only just managed to push himself onto his feet, now freed of the little bodies clinging to him, when he fell back into a skid, watching in wide-eyed black horror as the Anhelos launched into the living and tore ribbons of red across the throats of the Advisers, killing only a few before they were mercilessly killed in turn, their bodies, bodies like Clurie's, crumpled, split, and unfurled into death. Clurie gaped in horror, for, to him, it was like watching his brothers die. For a split moment, he felt what he would later hate to admit as sympathy for Chauhn, who also watched his kindred die, and a burning rage welled up in Clurie's gut. His mind entertained thoughts of lunging forward and completing their task, of crying revenge and burning the eyes out of the men who dared to kill his brethren, choking them with ash and embers, and for a moment he screamed senselessly at Erasmus for daring to kill one of his own kind, but one look at Adal's stiff back told him not to move, not to strike. He knew that such actions would only provoke Adal's ire, he had lived long enough with him to know when he wanted help and when he didn't and if he made any motion now he might ruin his plans instead of aiding it. Instead, fighting back the hot moisture that beaded at the corners of his eyes, the ashen Anhelo crawled back across the stage, watching in more horror as the excitos exploded with panic. He couldn't let them run out like the other Anhelos did, he couldn't let them get between people's feet and steps, the frenzy would kill them, and instantly the memory of a thousand little squashed and broken bodies of silver and gold bell excitos filtered through Clurie's mind. He choked on a gasp, and with anger, cried out in demand.

"NO! No! ALL OF YOU, STAY BACK! Stay back! WAIT! Clurie reached forward, but only reached, but stretched his arms, throwing them out with quickness, splintering them, breaking them into a dozen ashen tendrils, plucking up every Excito that dared to run for the edge of the stage and then carefully guiding them back into his arms, gathering them at the back of the stage near little Chayele. He felt the task drain his energy, his stomach rumbling to life, yearning to eat in order to replenish the energy used, but there was no time for that, nothing to eat. The Plagues needed to band together, they needed to stay together, they needed to stand beside one another as resolutely as the Clemmings family once did.

"Stay together...All of you, we need to stay together! We'll get you back to your Grimms, but for now, stay together! You'll be killed if we break apart! Trust in Adal! Stay back!"

Clurie steeled his face, gritting his teeth, levying himself up onto his feet so that he threw his splintered arms towards the fleeing Plagues, pulling the motionless Plagued items towards him, hoarding them, yanking them back towards the far empty side of the stage, the shadows, as black as the death they were born from. He managed to pull a violin case to him, as well as some bandages, a weather vane, a bow, a wineglass and a satchel, and finally a pumpkin. He deposited them carefully near the back, standing before his horde with spread legs and determination. As he breathed, heavy with his teeth grit and grinding, the ashen Anhelo breathed embers and ash. When he turned to those he had gathered already, he caught the sights of Hopkin and Hayat, of Lettie and Filin, Lucky and Ophelia, and the new little rabbit Excito. They were so small...Clurie's heart clenched with worry. He focused his eyes on Chayele, glancing at her in between his task of gathering the running Excitos and pressing them near to her. He looked like a demon, breathing the glow of a fire.

"Chayele, little one, speak to that stupid little rock thing already! Help us! Help your brethren! Quick, before they all end up underneath someone's heel! Quick, Chayele!"

Sloane craned his neck, easily seeing over and between all those present in the balcony and looking to the stage below. Guilt was seeping through his veins like tar that he was not also upon that stage with the other Plagues, protected here while the ones who needed protection were thrown to the wolves. Still, a fierce grin parted his lips and altered his pained expression as, more and more, voices of protests from the attending Grimms sounded out. Some gave up their Plagues willingly, terrified of being a traitor or merely thankful for a chance to rid themselves of the tainted objects that haunted them so. Yet more stood against this chance, clinging to their tainted companions for dear life... as his own Grimm had just done, however quietly.

Emperor Rine's words directed at the freckled boy failed to stir an immediate reaction in neither Plague nor Grimm, until his announcement of the Doctor's power. So the power and political sway of the Plague Doctor had been given, the Emperor said, so it could be taken away, he meant.

The Grand Magus was still reeling from her own announcement, the single sentiment of unabashed truth in this entire meeting of "neutrality". Her knight held her steady, large hands and long fingers firmly wrapped around her forearms as the lightheaded feeling and butterflies in her stomach waved uneasily between improving and worsening. Sage closed her eyes as it intensified, brow knitting with the fear of sick, and then a single shot from an arm cannon caused her nails to dig into Sloane's chain mail.

That voice rang out again, assuring the Guardsmen that he did not have a rifle on him but merely displayed magic. How was it that he was able to perform while she and others could not? Then the familiarity of the accent brought what Sanguine said to the forefront of her mind, hitting her in the gut like a lead brick. This man was powerful indeed.

A powerful Waldgrave.

Silence followed, a strange silence like most in the auditorium, but it was soon broken by a familiar voice and in Sloane's memory the soft tones of a violin played. What did that hat think he was doing, acting so mighty over the Emperor and all those present? The Sword's throat tightened and for a moment he held his breath. A crown rebelling against the hierarchy.

When Treatise turned the Malt boy over toward them, the Grand Magus released her knight. The motion silently requested he do the same, and the Infitialis obeyed without a word. There were many questions rolling through her mind, but none of them seemed right. In fact, the lot of them seemed entirely childish and as she wrapped her arms around herself tightly, Sage briefly wondered if she might be mentally regressing under all this stress. All she wanted to do was ask Georgie why this was happening, for him to give an honest answer, and for it to stop. Instead, she hung her head and asked the only thing that made any sense to her.

"How is it you know the Emperor's will?"

All hope for an answer was interrupted as the Plague General stepped up and began addressing the Audience, the robed figures standing at attention behind the Emperor -- seemingly harmless. Oh, but they were far from harmless, weren't they? The Locos explained to all those present, loud and clear, that it was they who pulled the strings in the background and they who had true control over the entire country.

Compared to the Audience, Emperor Rine and his four body doubles were mere puppets, figure heads with no true influence outside of the Audience's will. And thus, the one thing she thought would make everything fall into place when she asked was rendered absolutely useless as soon as it left her lips.

Every word Treatise spoke was true. Everything that had been put into place since the first one, the very same Plague standing at odds with the Emperor now, came into being, was now being threatened. An entire support structure for research, understanding, further search for a cure -- a cure that stood there now, threatening the manipulators of Panymium -- was being betrayed and thrown out like trash. What had all they worked for until this day mattered, then, if it was going to be discarded so easily?

Sloane cursed just before the real gun fire started, seeing the movement from the two Anhelo remaining besides Clurie. He couldn't know what they were thinking but it was entirely possible he might have done the same if he were down there with the fear of being taken, being destroyed, pulsing through him. In a time before, not so long ago, he would have been the first to do this and at a much earlier opportunity.

General Kunze turned, walking to the end of the balcony and pushed past the three of them as they congregated. The Grand Magus moved aside, watching as the leader of the Guardsmen trudged sourly down the stairs to enter the fray. Metal tapped against metal as Sloane rapped the tips of his claws against his armor-clad thigh, teeth gritted into a rigid snarl. There had to be something, anything they could do, but going against the Emperor -- The Audience -- would surely brand them traitors all the same.

Movement at her side pulled Sage to step forward, Georgie Malt muttering distressed words. For a fleeting moment their eyes met and her own revealed the true worry and sense of displacement she felt here, now. With how quick he was to run off, all she could do was take a step after him and reach out as though to grab his shirt but she stopped herself and stood still. Was he so reckless that he held no fear of consequences for what he was about to do? Or was it more that the consequences were out weighed by the benefits should he succeed?

For the first time in so long, Sage Estratus finally came to the realization that she had absolutely no idea what to do.

Lowering her hand, the Grand Magus balled her fists and the leather gloves stretched with a strangely satisfying sound. "Sloane," she said simply, attempting to look at him with a stern and professional face but hers was just as torn and confused as his was. As the Grand Magus' Adviser she held a great deal of command, but an amount that was far more comfortable for it could be measured and had a stopping point. Now her own powers reached out to every nook and cranny in Panymium, every single solitary section of every region, from Helios itself, from Auvinus to Mishkan and back. Where did her power end... and where did it begin? Sage could not bring herself to act, not understand what significance her new role truly held.

Just as her Grimm did, Treatise approached the stairs and pulled away the curtain to reveal them, pausing only to look upon The Grand Magus and her knight before descending. Was she to join her Grimm or the boy?

"Sage," he addressed her informally without the presence of others, bowing his head and holding a hand out. His Grimm looked perplexed before she relented, exasperated, and placed her hand in his. His steel covered fingers closed upon it, giving her delicate hand a firm but gentle grip. "Please remain here and be safe."

She lifted her gaze and stared at him with tired eyes, her brow knotted from a tumult of combating emotions.

"I cannot stand idly by. I need to help them. I need to be their sword." Sage's mouth tensed and through his gauntlet he felt her fingers tighten around his hand.

Rifle fire startled her, and his Grimm pulled her hand away, cradling it against her chest. Her gaze was far from his, pointed to the tips of her boots, but her words rang clear. "Do what you must." That was all the order he needed for him to bolt down the stairs.

It was total chaos on stage, yet the majority of Grimms remained glued to their seats out of sheer fear -- and who could blame them? The monstrous Infitialis towered over the lot of them, armor clinking to announce his presence as he moved through the aisle after the Malt boy and walked opposite the General. A long blade poured from the wrist of his gauntlet, metal singing happily as it readied itself for the potentiality of battle.

Above, the Grand Magus lingered, watching her Plague move through the throngs of seats and human bodies. Her gaze shifted to the ashen Quietus as his limbs shot forth and scooped up every fleeing Excito he could reach, every item within his grasp. Plagues were not allowed in politics and were denied many rights because they were not human but this display of self preservation and the preservation of others proved one thing and one thing only to Sage, then.

Plagues were far more human than anyone thought.

Her white waist cloth billowed as she turned, hard heels making determined clacks against the wood and stone floor. Descending the stairs, she passed the curtained partition and entered into the scene and there she was met at a crossroads. At one side, her own Plague and Georgie Malt, rushing to the aid of the Plagues, and at the other was General Diedthelm Kunze rushing either to the assistance of the Emperor or the Audience. She paused, but only for a moment, and followed after Sloane. Her eyes, however, never left General Kunze and she watched the events warily as she passed many a seated Grimm without so much as a word or glance.

It seemed to Dan that whenever he wondered how things could get worse, the answer came far too quickly. Numbness was all that registered to the young mage as he watched the two anhelo's and others die upon the stage. He had never witnessed violent death before this, and scenes from numerous nightmares danced through his mind, laughing at the fact he had considered them frightening compared to this. Blood. Death. Screams. Chaos. All felt distant, the stage before him twirling in and out of the personal hell that built and built behind his eyes. Danylrein Galdenin was trapped, a useless automaton stuck in an endless loop.


The little lantern fared no better. Only worse. She found herself falling, suddenly displaced from the anchor she had desperately been clinging to, and in her panic she fled after one of the rouge anhelo's. Which meant that suddenly she found herself as one of the primary witnesses to the death of kin. The sound of gunfire battered the phasmas, the events occurring before her barely registering due to lack of understanding - but she understood enough, and even that was too much. Stray blood spattered onto her, the garnet liquid glowing grotesquely on her orange body. Plague or human, no way to tell, but it didn't matter. Dimly, another scream reached her, and she found herself turning, just in time to see the other anhelo be skewered through the eyes. Her face and mouth became blank, the lurid red splatters of blood looking like craters leading into her head.

Nella was boneless when the ash plague dragged her back, head rolling limply. The grimms of those plagues had shown their love by not giving them up..... and then they had had to watch them die. Nothing was said, only the burying of her face into warm ash, desperately trying to forget what now played again and again in her mind.


Pain brought back Dan from his metal trap, blood welling from his mauled lower lip. Tears continued to track down his face, for even with a muffled mind what had happened to Nella still dug in like a bloody hook. He had to do something. He had to help her. He had to help all of them. As if in answer to his desperate thoughts, he found himself being passed by Sloane and Sage. Barely a whisper of mental debate occurred before he found himself on his feet, following the two of them down to the stage. A small part of his couldn't help but remember that the political implications of this meeting were huge; a plague threatening the emperor, advisers, guards, and plagues dead, ill will bred for possibly years to come, and a mysterious magic using man in the audience. He also forgave Kirkaldy and Erasmus, for even if the scalpel was responsible for one of the deaths, the two of them and the Council were not responsible for what else had occurred here today. All that mattered in this moment however was following the two before him, to get to his plague and all of the others. To try and make any difference he could.

The theater erupted into chaos, and Theo was on his feet as soon as the first attacks began. Gunshots added to the cacophony of noise rising from the seats, and people were falling. Blood, crushed Plagues upon the stage.. some of the other keepers were charging, including that small urchin boy that he remembered from his far-removed past life. For now, all Theo could do was watch the crowd swell and rub his aching arms, waiting, looking for an opening.

He had to get to his ring. There had to be an opening somewhere. They needed to get out.

On the stage, Ophelia blinked slowly at Armaud as the Plague seemed to have read her gaze and responded properly with one of her own. The thought that she had been so bare, so transparent made her feel exposed and weak. Her fingers tightened on Clurie's trouser leg as saucer-like eyes watched the pebble being handed over from Armaud to a green and ivory Plague. It was all she could do to block out the noise of the theater, the yells, the cries of pain that aroused something deep within her mind and urged her to look. Yet all she could think of was her Theo, and how far she was from him.

Suddenly she was scooped up into the ashen Plague's arms, clamored together with other Excitos. An indignant noise of protest and something akin to fear rose in her throat as they were deposited safely in another area of the stage. Her senses felt overloaded and the sudden loss of control of her own body had been, for lack of a better term, disorienting. The ring was about to question her carrier why, when her gaze was drawn to the other Excitos that had not been spared, and now lay crushed against the stage floor. The question died before bubbling to her lips. But the small bodies were not the only casualties thus far.. indeed, there were larger bodies here and there, the smell of blood in the air. Truthfully, this scene bore much resemblance to that at the fairgrounds during the Troupe de Panymium incident, but there was a noticeable difference between then and now - her proximity to her Grimm, her Theo.

Her senses were heightened, and Ophelia was now openly afraid and unable to hide it. Any shame she would have normally felt would bubble to the surface once the danger had passed, but for now her fingers ached to cinch themselves into the fabric of Theo's collar. Her wide gaze sought Theo out in the crowds and saw him being pushed and pulled by others racing forward to join the fray, his face thoughtful and worried as his own head whipped to and fro. She knew what he aimed to do, and the sight of the bodies on the stage once again drew her attention. Before she could properly think, her tiny hands rose and extended towards the seats.

"Theo, you musn't!" The ring shouted as loudly as her tiny voice would allow from the back of the stage. She was not quite sure if Theo heard her request at first, but when he stalled and stared at her with a gaze that read bewilderment, she assumed he had. It was a feeling she could not quite explain the cause for, but somehow she felt the ache of disappointment. Surely, she wanted her Grimm whole and relatively safe, if that meant waiting until the time was right for him to come and claim her. However, she had half hoped that he would have not heeded her and still tried to rescue her, instead of staring at her with confusion and a helpless clenching and unclenching of his fists at his sides.

Why did she feel this way, at a time such as this? The ring did not understand.

Hopkin heard the ruckus around him, but his eyes were on Wickwright, who had made so little effort to do something. Yet how could he in this chaos? This was no sphere for Jawbone Men, who spoke in measured truths. Rather, this was a strange world, and little made sense. That which did was doused and consumed by chaos. What was he to do surrounded so by the wide world's lies? Wickwright dealt with such things for him, and even he seemed rendered helpless.

His apathy was quickly turning to indignation, and more so when even Clurie began to trust Armaud. What was there to trust about her? She had given them no proof of her loyalty, only panic and forced decisions, and worse, she had left their salvation in the hands of one of the Plagues least likely to deliver. He watched as Clurie gathered the Plagued items, and felt something akin to anger bubbling in his chest, real and genuine, and the closest he had ever come to feeling it before. It was not a book's job to judge the actions of others, but now it seemed the fate of all the Plagues was tied together, and his fate with them, and there was no representative to speak for him, no Wickwright. No, these Plagues were all homines leves, and seeing Clurie struggling in vain to act filled his head with a buzzing, painful frustration. He was more intelligent than these homines leves. He saw the problems, saw, the lies, and yet, try as he might, he could not think of any action even as useful as the futile struggling of Clurie Clemmings. A relief, then, that the disguised Anhelo threatening the emperor had given them a command that absolved him of his apathetic guilt.

Be still.

That was all that Hopkin found he had the imagination to commit himself to, apart from a feeble scrambling to get behind the other Plagues so he might be protected. He was a Jawbone Book, this was not his arena, and his concern was survival, not leading homines leves out of peril. However, when Clurie addressed Chayele Meschke, he could not remain silent.

"Chayele Meschke cannot speak," he interjected on her behalf. "She cannot write or communicate in any way but pantomime."

In a way, it was vindicating. If he could not expose Armaud as a vicious untruth, he could at least shed light on her final prank.


Wickwright's opening salvo was quickly overthrown in the chaos resulting from the balcony boy's dramatic announcement, and he could not even keep Clemmings under control, as the boy plotted with a vaguely familiar looking child of a similar age, some foolish plan Wickwright would no doubt have the displeasure of seeing made into action. On the stage, chaos was erupting as well, and a Plague revealed itself, threatening the life of the Emperor and an advisor. Plagues of all kinds were beginning to lash out now, it seemed, against the government, against each other. The thought of his book still up there, vulnerable, utterly unaccustomed to exercising free will, made his chest go cold. What, then, would a stiff and aged mendicant do? This was no meeting of Jawbone Men, his power in that forum was attached to his name. Here, the name of Finch evoked very little, if anything at all. People were getting up now, surrendering Plagues some, trying to save them, others. He wished he had either luxury, and instead, crossed his legs and steepled his fingers, tuning out the chaos around him.

If the Plagues were revolting, he knew Hopkin would make no move to help.

If the Plagues were planning an escape, nor would Hopkin accompany them without word from Wickwright.

A few esteemed persons were making arguments against the legality of the Emperor's ultimatum, Wickwright knew as a Jawbone Man, he should be championing logic. But there was little way to make himself heard except to cause a spectacle or somehow become politically valuable. Considering the amount of time he seemed to have to accomplish these things, and the age he had managed to reach, neither of these options seemed particularly feasible.

Well, Hopkin could not see him to be idle, and he was hardly going to make more of a fool of himself by speaking to kings and politicians than some of these Grimms were by open rebellion. So Wickwright made haste in approaching the stage, and then hesitated a moment. Who to address? He glanced at the various figures and settled on Kirkaldy. Convincing the Emperor he was wrong was a task people were already setting about doing. The Council had brought him into this mess, yet no one seemed to be taking time to see if they could help him out of it.

"Doctor Kirkaldy, a word please? Convincing the Emperor of the folly of this action is all well and good, but perhaps doing so in a friendlier environment would be a more conducive method. If the violence here is allowed to escalate, a rebellion of Plagues might be nigh. Can we yet leave the way we came?"