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"Oh," said Chauhn. The word was heavy on his lips, and despite his best efforts to contain his disappointment it appeared on the boy's shoulders. If Wickwright hadn't been to Marro since then, he would not have any information regarding the boy's home town, or it's state of health since the events of the past couple years. He still couldn't believe it, actually being far and away from his home for so long. There was one an age where he believed that things would never change. That was before the plague, before Clurie. It would be Chauhn's turn to tell the tale. "The plague came to Marro a few years before 1410, and it first started taking the workers from the docks and the shipyards and then their families. It spread from there to the mills and workhouses, but for a while was contained. I left Marro, though, in 1410, and I wasn't able to see if the city was ever able to pick itself back up onto its feet. The last time I was there, sections of the whole city were still quarantined, neighborhoods left behind. I hoped that you would have good news, but...It seems I have to pay a visit. Once we go our separate ways with the Malts, that might be where we go. They're always moving just to keep themselves safe, it isn't trying to ditch us, they have every right, and honestly, it's just to keep everyone safe...Though it's not really working out in our favor, right now," Chauhn shrugged his shoulders and managed to pull a small smile onto his face for the sake of decency. He listened in to the rest of the conversation, furrowing his brows and nodding with understanding when the old man mentioned similar circumstances regarding the birth of his own plagued companion. He glanced to the little book boy, his brows raising with understanding. The little thing was demanding answers.

"You see, uh," started Clurie. There was no way to breach this subject delicately, nor was he sure if he should even be talking about his history to strangers, but Chauhn figured there was no harm in it. All of the Fellowship knew by now, what harm could one old man do? Rubbing his clothes and edging himself closer to the fire in an attempt to keep his clothes from freezing onto him, the boy spoke up with a meek shrug. "My plague is made from the ashes of my little brother's corpse. My whole family, all seven of them, died back in Marro, and our neighbors boarded us up in our own home. Of them all, my little brother's corpse was the only one we burned, in an attempt to keep myself and my older sister safe, but the plague had already gotten to her too. She insisted that I bring his ashes with me, so that I would always have my family close by--"

"Which sounds like a load of romantic bullshit to me, let's be honest," said Clurie from where he was adjusting himself near Wickwright, extending his hand for the other. A few wary glances were exchanged and the edge of the knife sliced through Clurie's fingers. The Plague managed to suppress his pain with a short grunt through the clench of his teeth and then he laughed victoriously, wiggling the stumps of his ashen fingers as the severed digits wiggled in reply, but slowly faded into dust and ash. Unlike real ash, though, they were still black with taint, not pale and feathery. "The Truth is, though, that I'm made from his brother's ashes, but I am not him. No matter how much weepy eyed moaning brat, Chauhn Clemmings, wishes that I was his mewling brother, I am not, nor will I ever be, Clurie Clemmings. I'm just Clurie, an Anhelo and a Quietus, a Plague." To demonstrate this, Clurie focused his attentions and with the grit of his teeth, his mouth pulled into a cocky grin, he reformed his fingers before Wickwright, flexing them and even shaping them into claws before he let them settle down into a more human shape.