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Near the outskirts of the coastal town, a teeming place of hubbub and activity, the kind of city that only quiets down for a bare two hours in the night between the restocking of ships and the morning rush to boats, there were very few travelers on their way into and out of the port haven. It wasn't that hard to see an ash covered youth rushing out of the sanctioned off portion of town. He had a little rucksack slung over his shoulder and clothes that were quite obviously burned and smeared with ash. Pulled tightly over his cranium was a hat two sizes too large and around his neck a bundle of scarves were haphazardly and quickly tied. As he slunk away from the barricaded portion of the city, from buildings infected and marked off, boarded in and shut out, he held no signs of being ill. In fact, he was quite alive, not particularly healthy, what with being an urchin of the streets, but he definitely had quick and anxious movements, a lively and careful step that bespoke the rushing blood in his veins. To the passerby, he was just another urchin with foul luck, but to the close onlooker, he had the look of a fleeing fugitive.

Chauhn's eyes were wide and stark with fright. Possessed with the paranoid ambling and shakes of one who expected to be forced into the racks and whipped, Chauhn moved about in a hurry, constantly switching between a hurried rush and a speedy stumble. It was as if he couldn't decide being discreet or quick. It was in this confusion of pacing that he managed to cross his way before a very interesting person, whom he entirely failed to notice.

It was as he passed by this individual, that he gave an involuntary wet sniffle and rubbed at his face with the length of his sleeve, doing little to clear the ash from his face or wipe the gathering moisture from his eyes without simply irritating them further. Setting his face into the best determined frown he could muster, Chauhn adjusted his scarf and collar, where, within, a little body curled, just out of sight.

He gave a brief mutter, a soft whisper of words meant to be heard by no one else but him, perhaps not even him, as he made his faltering way past, his eyes set for the bridge that led from the city.

Authority and sternness aside, Chauhn was not convinced of this stranger's claimed attempts of help and gentility. Such people have tricked him before. The memories of being kidnapped weren't as clear as the run in with the terrible Obscuvian who paraded under the name of the Plague Doctor, but they remained in the forefront of his mind regardless. The echoed words of Sloane, warning him to be careful, to trust no one, rang in his ears like the after scream of an explosion. So, when a strong grip wrapped around his arm, he jerked forward, his wrapped feet tripping out from underneath him. He gave a growl, albeit not an intimidating one, but a growl nonetheless, and the urchin wrenched himself from the grip, trying with all his ability to wrestle or rip himself free. Fear, which was already a driving force, sparked up like a near covered flame given oxygen.

"Le'me go!" he bleated. He dug his heels into the ground and gave another yank, his free arm protectively curling near his collar.

Within the collar, little Clurie was startled awake by the sudden bellow of his brother's voice. He shifted, turning himself about to peer from his hiding place within the collar. It was only because the instructions were fresh in his memory that he kept himself concealed. He kept his fingers curled into tight fists, holding himself in place as his brother gave a violent struggle.

"Y'be a liar too, like all t'rest!" he managed to yelp, "Le'me go!" Obscuvian...Fellowship...Council...They all were names worn by thieves and ill-doers. The only person Chauhn could trust was Sloane...Sloane and Gregory and Adal...And the doctor. The TRUE doctor. He couldn't trust...Even the good and noble lord that held onto his wrist now. Chauhn peered up at the stern face of the noble, his eyes red and squinted with irritation, layered with gloss and fear.

It was Chauhn's honest intention to run in terror from the man as soon as his grip loosened from around his collar. At this point, no amount of sugar-coated words could sway him, no high promises of security and food could deter him, and no kind face could soften the hardened barricade the boy had lifted over himself in defense of an unforgiving world. There was a little part of him, the desperate part that not so much wanted help and protection as much he needed it, that demanded him to stop, think over the young lord's face and take him for what he appeared to be. No, Chauhn couldn't allow any more mistakes on his behalf. It was stupid of him to trust anyone else than Sloane and Georgie. Yet, despite all his internal struggle, Chauhn, just as the young lord released him, found himself staked to the ground.

Little Clurie, in the time that it took for the strange lord to make his promise of peace, had skittered out from Chauhn's collar, clumsily skiing down Chauhn's arm to latch onto the stranger's wrist and yank himself up his arm.

"I smell it on you!" the little Phasmas gushed happily. All thoughts of his promise to remain hidden had completely vanished from his mind. It wasn't that little Clurie was untrustworthy, but that he had the mind of a sift: practically everything fell through as easily as sand or honey. His little hands gripped tight to the Lord's sleeve and he rubbed his cheeks upon the fabric, making them glow and alight with embers, "I do, I smell it all over you. Death."

"Clurie!" Chauhn, made a swipe for Clurie, snatching the little Plague from the Lord's sleeve. The action was like grabbing a hot coal and the boy had to bite back a yelp as he juggled the small body in his hands and back up to his collar, where he huddled his hands protectively over him and around his neck.

Clurie, though, wasn't satisfied. He was never satisfied. Endlessly hungry, he peeped and tried to crawl over Chauhn's protective dam of hands, his cheeks still aglow with happiness, "Where is it? Where is it! I smell it all over you. Where is it?" His little white mouth was pulled into a happy 'v'.

Chauhn, in the meanwhile, was already blathering defenses and insults, "Ah swear, if'n you try 'n' take 'im, or hur' 'im, or me! Ahll set your jaw in! Ahm not afraid t'figh'! Ahll hur' you if'n you try 'n' hur' us!"

Grimm.

Sloane had used that word before. In fact, Sloane and Georgie, Adal, too, as well as Bo from the Council...they were the only ones that Chauhn had ever heard use that word. That term was exclusive to those he could trust. So, it was after he said that word did Chauhn's defense slowly buckle. With eyes clear of the madness and hurt they held before, the young Grimm gulped nervously as the Lord nearly reprimanded him for his solitude, but he kept his hackles up just in case.

"Ah am," he admitted with a hushed voice, as if he were speaking a secret oath, "Ah am discharged from the Council...Ah..." he glanced around, not liking the openness of their area. He quieted down, his arms still folded before him as he kept his hands tucked underneath his chin, "...Ah won't talk about it 'ere..."

This Lord, Chauhn realized, was a fellow Grimm, if they were telling the truth of course. But, his brother had smelled the other Plague upon him, just like he had down with Elsie and her Noah. So there could be no doubt...This lord was a Grimm. Perhaps that also meant that he could trust him too...

Chauhn gulped again, "Ah...Ah guess we can..."

But Clurie finished his sentence for him, "Yes! Can we go? Can we please? Where are we going? What are we going to go see? ...Oh right! The smell. The Plague. You have a plague, don't you? I can smell it on you!" Clurie rubbed his cheeks with his hands, making them bright with a fiery glow. "You should feed him, really, you should. I don't remember the last time he ate. Though, that could be just me. I have a bad memory. At least, I think I do. Do I, brother?"

Chauhn nodded, carefully stepping closer to the Lord. "You do, Clurie." Then, more softly, he asked, "Who are you?"