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It was out in the snow bound roads, that a wagon pushed through the horizon, a small lump of grey brown wedged between a gray sky and a solid white landscape. It was a wagon. At length, the wagon intercepted Sloane's path, passing just a few yards before him. They were struggling along, two men at the helm, one lurching forward in regular intervals to whip the frozen beast ahead, the other bound up in furs. Behind them in the wagon's back, lamely covered with a tarp held down by quickly placed nails, was another man who was crouching over what appeared to be a pile of supplies. They were odd supplies though, a bundle of sticks and brooms, dirty clothes, and an even larger bundle underneath that, wrapped up in a bag, with a loose twine string closing it up. The man who was sitting in the back, was rummaging through a burlap bag, carelessly tossing its contents to the side. He seemed frustrated.

"Mmnph!"

Was that a sound? A creak of the wheel? A shift of the wagon and the contents within? Whatever it was, it prompted the man in the back to kick the larger back, a kind of muscle spasm of sorts. Or was it intentional?
The bag seemed to cringe in response, and there was a slight struggle of the contents within. The loose twine fell loose, and the sack opened up, just enough, for a head to wiggle free.

By golly, there was a boy in that bag!

His face was smudged with soot and dried red, colors that matted his hair into knots. Wrapped tightly around his mouth, his lips tinged with blue, was a dirty cloth, meant to keep in an even bigger wad of cloth inside. His eyes connected with the lumbering beast that was Sloane, bright new green leaf eyes that begged for nothing less than:

HELP!"

And about him, was the smell of Plague.

"What the blasted hell is going on?" asked the man from the back. When the wagon lurched, he fell forward onto his knees, dropping all of the contents on the floor. He slammed back against his makeshift seat of a box, and scowled, glancing about for the source of the disturbance. Instead his eyes caught sight of the little boy straining his head for air. Frightened that someone might see, he stuffed the boy's head within the bag and again tightened the knot, pushing him to the far back of the wagon. It was around that time that one of his men tripped, fell, and, quite frankly, disappeared.

"Where'd he go?" he asked, shuffling his way out of the wagon and hopping into the snow. The ice crunched beneath his feet and he made his way over to the other man.

The slimmer of the two, held his hands up weakly in reply, "I don't know! He was here a moment ago, I saw him on the other side, and then, the next moment, I looked, he was gone!"

"What the hell," the larger man said, lowering himself down on his haunches to peer underneath the wagon, "Men just don't disappear out in the snow like this..."

"Wheels just don't burst either," the slimmer man said in addition, also lowering himself down onto his knees to look underneath the wagon.

He was making his way to the other side of the wagon, intent on kicking through the snow there for the body of their fallen companion, when the slimmer of the two men gave a yelp, and like the first of them, also slipped from sight. His stomach dropped from his ribcage.

"Hey...Greggori? Greg?" the man asked, his voice raising higher as he made his way back around to peer around the wagon. It was to his surprise that when he peered around the wagon, there was a face looking back at him. It was no regular face, but a toothy maw, a roar of a grin, that peered back at him, swirled eyes pinned on him and him alone. The man released a yell of fright and threw his arms back, his body wishing to throw itself backwards while his legs stuck frozen in place to the snow. The end result was that he fell back with a plop into the snow, too frightened to do much more than shout:

"Plague!"

Within the back of the wagon, uncomfortably tight within his burlap prison, Chauhn weakly continued to make noise, in hopes that he would soon be heard. It was so hard to breathe. He gave a struggle and a kick of his legs, which were wrapped and bound tight, his ankles tied with rope to the curve of his hips and waist so that he couldn't run if he were to escape. His very wrists were also tied to that same knot, a compact and secure way of keeping a body immobile. There was not much to do. But Chauhn didn't give in to helplessness yet, he continued to struggle strong, and use what was left of his voice to garner attention.

For only split moments more, while the wagon jumped and bucked underneath him, did Chauhn breathe the stale smell of the burlap bag. With the rip and tear of fabric, the scratchy bag was peeled away from his form, and, quite helpless, the boy rolled to the side, finally exposed to the chill air. A majority of his clothes were stripped away, leaving only his undershirt and linens. Upon his arms were a score of bruises from where he was roughly handled and the back of his head was matted with dry blood. He blinked up at the Plague, watching from the corner of his gaze, as the cloth was finally tugged away from his mouth. A Plague...Like Adal. This, of all people, was the right person to be saved by, according to Chauhn's standards. The first thing he did was force out the wet wad of cloth, and stretch his aching mouth. He was so thirsty, his throat so dry and sticky with fabric remnants, that his first attempts for sound were quite miserable in and of themselves. Using his tongue, he did his best to wet his throat and lick his lips, before he managed to eek out a couple words of gratitude.

"Thank ye kindly, Mister," he said, remaining limp as his bonds were carefully wrenched away from his form. When his worn red wrists were freed, Chauhn stretched them to his face and tried to push himself up from the wood boards, his skin quickly prickling from the bite of the cold, waiting patiently for his legs and ankles to be freed as well. "...Where's my littl' brother? I need to find me brother."

Chauhn's precious pouch of ashes was no where to be found around his neck.

Glancing down at his chest and feeling around, tracing the muscle memory of his makeshift pendant, the weight of his brother's ashes somehow gone, Chauhn began to show signs of panic, "My little brother, 'e'll freeze ta death, sir, I need to find 'im!" He turned his gaze to Sloane his eyes swollen with a sudden panic, a deeper panic than when he was captured, that rocked him nearly to tears. "They took 'im away from me!"

"Aye, 'e was, sir," Chauhn responded, still feeling vainly around his neck and straightening his legs underneath him, "'E was righ' with me, around my neck, see." He was so sore, it was hard to move. The aches in his joints ballooned to life as he struggled to move, and as he moved himself onto his hands and knees, he looked quite awkward. He wobbled and often fell into a sit, wiping his sticky bangs out of his face and using his other hand to dig underneath his collected things. With every moment that passed without the discovery of his leather pouch, Chauhn's breathing began to hasten. The sky, as well, seemed to grin at his misfortune and bore down on the duo, heaving forth its grey belly. The snow began to thicken.

"'E's me brother, I take care o' 'im," he said, his voice straining with each word. He shifted back, and kicked his legs free of the agonizing ropes and burlap bag. It was then that he saw a familiar strand of woven twine. Gasping, he leapt for it, and dragged the string out from underneath the bag. Sure enough, the leather pouch was on the other end, hidden by the tangle of the bag. "'Ere 'e is!" Chauhn barked happily, his words breaking, "Oh, thank me 'ealth, 'ere 'e is." Chauhn help up the pouch for Sloane's inspection, his breathing finally calming down. With his brother again in his possession, he regained his strength and the hint of a proud smile flecked his cheeks, pulling his mouth up into dimples.

Then he gave a strong, head to toe, shiver. He was still in, quite literally, his drawers and only a shirt. "M-my name's not Grimm, sir, it's Chauhn. Chauhn Clemmings. 'N' this is Clurie. Say hi, Clurie," the boy raised up the pouch again, smiling his dimples as he did so, "E's me younger brother." ...Alright, so it seemed that Chauhn might be a little worse for wear mentally than originally thought.

Chuahn hardly moved as Sloane spoke and bowed before him. He wasn't really sure what to make of the whole situation. Such deep vows and gestures of respect where entirely alien to the boy and he found it extremely hard to do anything but blink at Sloane in wonder. He was wrapped up in the provided furs and over-sized coats quicker than he could could echo the word "Grimm?" in surprise. In all honesty, he didn't know anything about titles or Fellowships or Ladies of fantastical names. He was a street urchin. And before then he was a worker, not a student. Providing for the family was more important to the Clemmings family at that time than was education. Chauhn hardly knew how to count. He knew the worth of money, which one was what, but his education fell woefully short of anything useful and norm, much less the names and people of particular importance in the world.

"T-thank you kindly, Mister Sloane," Chauhn chirped.

Nuzzling his face out of the furs, and keeping his precious parcel of ash close to him, the urchin blinked at Sloane with nothing but questions in his eyes.

"Grimm? Why 'm ah called Grimm? Ahm just a Clemmings, sir," Chauhn said, trying to make sense of it all, "Pleasure t' meet you, Mister Sloane. Sorry t' say, but ah don't know any Lady or Fellowship." Then at the question of his destination, Chauhn was struck with dumbfounded confusion. He looked around, quite perplexed at the vast flatness of white that expanded all around them, the small town that Sloane must've come from in the distance. "Ah...Ah don't know...Ahm lost, Mister Sloane."

Chauhn didn't back up or move away when the Plague before his knelt low to speak with him, his sharp incisors close enough for the boy's naturally curious inspection, for Chauhn felt no fear from him. He stood his ground against him, kept his shoulders back and straight, his spine stiff underneath the warming weight of the furs piled atop his shoulders. As Sloane spoke, Chauhn dimly recalled where he had heard that term before, just vaguely when he first encountered Adal. In their heated discussion, Chauhn remembered the other Plague mentioning words like Sloane spoke of, but he also remembered his desperate attempt to plug out all that he had said, as well. Clurie, Chauhn resolved, was his brother coming back, not a life bringer, death dealer, or magic keeper. But he kept these firm beliefs to himself. He knew better than to open his mouth again, especially after his argument with Adal. It wasn't worth his effort, especially when, no matter what he said in defense of his little brother, they never understood. So, playing the part of a fish-like individual, Chauhn nodded, mouth gaped and eyes wide at the information being presented.

"S'okay if'n you just call me Chauhn," he interjected quickly while the other spoke, and he nodded helpfully, listening with an increasing worry playing out in the wrinkles between his brows. He was also warned by Adal and Georgie, warned that others might be out to take him. They told him that this would happen, that it was his role to protect the ashes from anyone and anything that would take them or do harm otherwise. He understood, now that he was kidnapped, that...Perhaps there was truth in what the Malt brothers were trying to tell him. But...If they were right about people trying to take what was rightfully his, then would they be right about his ashes transforming not into his brother but a ghost with the guise of Clurie...?

Chauhn's face heated up at the thought and his pale lips pulled down into a chapped frown, "They can't 'ave 'im, no matter whot. No matter who they think they are, they can't 'ave 'im," he stated defensively, clutching the ash bag tightly to his chest, accidentally crushing the little wiggling mass within. Loosening his grip and stroking the worn of the leather of the pouch with his thumb, he continued watching Sloane until something very odd and disturbing happened.

Blood.

Like a shed tear of red, Chauhn watched as the uncanny thing dribbled down his savior's cheek. The crease between his brows furrowed further and he spoke up, like an urchin trying to advise a blind man to wipe off the dirt from his nose. "...Mister Sloane, sir? Your eye...It's...It's bleedin'." But as he spoke, the Plague turned away and gathered his things, wiping the blood from his cheek.

But then he was faced with a choice, a decision, on which he had very little to make a judgment on. To the mountains or into town? Chauhn really had no idea. He just knew that he had to get back home, get back to familiar territory. Chauhn had little else than what he already knew, and like a lost child seeking its mother, he wanted nothing more but to find what was already engraved into his memory.

"If'n you can take me closer to a trade route...A place where ah can hitch a ride back to m'home, 'n Imisus, that would be just well 'n' dandy, sir, Mister Sloane, sir," he confessed, huddling himself close to himself and his body warmth. "Ah just wanna get back."