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He had eaten, yes, as Bhakti had bade him. Demanded, really, along with the prescription of 'rest'. All this, before he made the journey to the Fellowship, where Chauhn was being held. It was too much to hope for, in light of recent events, which he [returned that very night from Imisus] had yet to hear in full.

It was in his study that he was found, the captain of his private guard grave of face and stern of tone. A mob of the township, hateful and carrying what they had on hand. It was a dark time, in Shyregoad, the echos of a murder and the whispers of the cult permeating the air. It was in that moment that Yizhaq discovered the actions of the Queen, the death of Waldgrave. It was then that he took to the thick, stone walls, the barricaded entrance. Lining it were the guard, some equipped with bows as they stared down at their countrymen. A glance, then, to those at the gatehouse, and he had made his decision.

"Open the gate."

"M'lord?" It was a breathless question, one of surprise and concern. One that Yizhaq had no patience for. His tone was brisk, irritable as he waved a hand at the guard, condoning him for questioning the order of the estate's master.

"We will not harm those we are sworn to protect! Open the gate."

----

Too soon, he was before them, only the stone bridge holding the line between them. His guards were there, but silent, as he adjusted his collar, hazel eyes skimming the dirty, bright faces of what could only be termed a 'mob'. A magically-inclined member of his staff lent him his skill, amplifying his voice into the growing darkness. He would speak.

"You are hungry, abused, tired, and angry - As am I! This is my home, and when it bleeds, I bleed in turn. We have all been betrayed! Wronged by the violence and deception that has crept across these lands. There has never been a time when I have not stood with you, the pulse of this nation, and now I ask you to stand with me."

At first, many continued to shout, but their voices faded at the sight of their 'nobility'. Their 'mage'. He was not the fat, prideful creature that they had grown to imagine, to loathe. Instead, they saw Yizhaq, youthfully approaching his thirties, dark circles beneath his eyes and plain clothing upon his form. A young man, earnestly appealing to the people he had grown up alongside.

"Your brothers, your sisters, your children and parents, they have cared for this estate, and been cared for in return. Do not destroy generations of trust, for those who do not know us and do not care to. I will not see our people be used - again."

It was clear that his logic was beginning to seep into their consciousness, that and the blank faces of his guard, familiar faces. Weeks before, they'd laughed together, lived together. It was a fabricated line, the division along the bridge, and one that Lord Yizhaq aimed to destroy.

"Those of you that lend a hand to our defense will find the other filled with food, clothing, and shelter. Take up new homes and arms within our walls, and together we will show our enemies that Shyregoad is strong, and not to be trifled with. These fanatics will not make a mockery of our character."

A mixture of responses came, cheering, silence, the grumbling of those never satisfied... But he was done. Turning to his captain, he clapped the man on the shoulder. "We will turn our home into a fortress, my friend, and welcome our family within it. Be prepared."

Standing dutifully by the head of the estate was a withdrawn young lad, deceptively smaller than his age would've required had he been brought up with good food and regular meals instead of little or none at all. His golden hair was carefully brushed back into a stubby ponytail at the top of his head and from underneath his recently trimmed bangs, he stared out at the newcomers with worry, glancing constantly between his Lord, his wife, and the slouching Anhelo next to him. Clurie was standing a good yard or two away from Chauhn, on the opposite side of Yizhaq and his family, as far away as he could bargain when he was ordered to stay close to him by Yizhaw's demand, dressed up in a matching Page's outfit to his Grimm, strung with highlights of purple and drenched in grays, the unassuming colors of a youth of the Fellowship. It was an outfit given to him by Yizhaq who, to Clurie's pride, deemed him an individual, and therefore his own person with his own role and clothes to wear representing his station instead of just an inseparable tethered being of the Plague to Chauhn's side, beck, and call. Anything to wedge between him and Chauhn was happily accepted by the newly grown Ash Plague. Usually, when they were not on duty, Clurie was attached to Adal's side or pestering Georgie when he wasn't being a crutch for Chauhn's crippled state of being. At the moment, the Malts were about elsewhere in the manor, momentarily relieved from tending to the Clemmings problems, no doubt, though both boys secretly hoped for their only friends to appear sometime to share a quick conversation or two before they were beckoned again by duty. Clurie fiddled with his arms, passing the time as refugees wandered with knocking knees into Al-Yizhaq's home by forcing his arms into as much of a human state as possible from the inhuman monstrous claws of ash and glistening embers that they usually defaulted to when he wasn't thinking.

Clurie looked to his side, his black eyes narrowing as he caught Chauhn's face sinking into sadness, glancing hurriedly away from him. He could feel when that Clemming's boy was staring at him, secretly gaping and staring terrified at his striking resemblance to the dead Clurie Clemmings, the human one that he could never replace. It made him feel uncomfortable, like he was being measured up to something else instead of being seen for who he was, not who he wasn't. Clurie sniffed, his ashen cheeks cracking into warmth when he gave a haughty scrunch of his nose, doing anything possible to hide the burning hurt he felt when Chauhn looked at him with those disappointed and fearful brows.

"...Clurie?" It was a hard word to speak for Chauhn, who had to gulp several times before and after saying it. Clurie let his head sink back on his neck in exasperation, refusing to glance at his Grimm.

"...What is it now, Clemmings?" he asked in soft irritation. He couldn't get as touchy as he wanted to around Lord Al-Yizhaq.

Chauhn pursed his face into all matter of knots, trying to find a face that would fit for what he was about to say next, whatever face that would receive the less heat from his Plague. "Back straight, arms down, and heels together," he said in the most helpful tone that he could muster.

"I know," said Clurie with a furrow of his brows and the hot glow of his cheeks. He didn't change his slumping contrapposto pose, staring with his head down, black ash curls spilled free from the hat that he wasn't allowed to wear when he was a Page, at his hands that were struggling to keep from lengthening into monstrous barbs. He had already ruined his sleeves and pant legs with ash and burns, clothes that were, unlike his born garb, subject to burning, despite his efforts to roll up his sleeves and pants past his joints where his skin blackened and cracked into embers.

"Clurie..." came Chauhn's stressed whine.

"I know!" Clurie hissed back with a glare.

The Clemmings, inseparable and insufferable, ready to escort the lost through the halls of their Lord's estate.

Due to an overwhelming amount of work given to the Malts after the concurrent threat by the cultists, of which was omnipotent and inititally unnerving, both Adal and Georgie were quick to forget about such things nearly instantly afterward. Juggling between the Clemmings was no easy chore and, separated for much of their time at the Estate, though they'd only been there for a grand total of three days, now, Adal and Georgie seemed mildly more pleased by each other's company than they thought would be possible. Either way, Adal was quiet and didn't seem to mind sticking to Clurie's side, or being asked to make sandwiches on his off hours (for why, he was never given an explanation), and Georgie didn't say a word of complaint for taking care of Chauhn when he was so wracked with pain and fright.

When they did see each other, however, slightly more free from the Doctor's given apprentice duties, the two would laugh in secret, smirk and jostle each other's hair and burst out into fits of raucous wrestling matches and pointless games they'd learned at workhouses, though the wrestling was usually more one-sided than Georgie would like. To look at the broken state of Chauhn and Clurie relieved them of jollity soon thereafter, however, and after their tomfoolery some latter and more serious issues concerning the Malts were in order. For hours on end Georgie worriedly checked around the house and Adal frantically sniffed out the wafting smell of cultists and crows from around the area and, like a madman, Adal would trail away into isolated spots and remain sleepless and energized at the sights of looming shadows.

It was because of this that Georgie nearly dragged him back into the gate entrances of the humble lord's estate, his arm latching to the leather rope of Adal's bag of things. The Locos' stare lingered heavily to the back of him, eyes furrowed significantly as he tried to inch away from Georgie, but the brunette pushed him into the final steps of cobblestone into the heart of the courtyard flooded with people. While Adal immediately turned around to stare at the front gate, displeased, Georgie shot the Clemmings and the lord a quiet grin. Between whispered excuses and bobs of the head, Georgie slowly inched he and his brother through the crowd, shifting his feet until he finally reached just a few feet away from the Clemmings boys. The brunette was unsure whether or not to interject, however, as a young man was conferring with Lord Yizhaq personally.

Georgie tilted his head to the side and waved a bandaged hand at Clurie and Chauhn, momentarily removing his clutch on Adal to cup his mouth and hiss, "Chauhn! Clurie! Are you two doing alright?"

The Locos, confused at the sudden loss in pressure, turned around and walked up behind Georgie, his head poking out the side of Georgie's shoulder. He was staring at Danylrein and his Phasmas, however, instead of the two Clemmings, and he murmured, "Smells like candlewax. Nice scent to smell after smelling Cultist for the past three days."

The feeling of nerves tickled down Bhakti's spine. It had been present most of the day, but was especially rampant now, as the unfamiliarity of having the courtyard grow to full capacity began to settle in.

It seemed each one of these guests were entitled to, or perhaps cursed with, a creature such as the one her husband kept. They were by no means left with any less scrutiny than Hayat herself had faced, and Bhakti was quick to force her face to a state of neutrality at the sight of them.

"It is good, to finally be able to meet allies of my husband. I apologize, that once again, we have not the time for the lengthy, and hospitable introductions I would like to give." She nodded her head to him politely, and rose from her seat to do so. Her eyes traveled between those arriving and her husband, her task at hand set aside for a watchful position.

They were all, most apparently, startlingly familiar with one another, and Bhakti was careful not to jump to any motions without at least an informal invitation from her husband to do so first. She was, she decided, slightly out of practice with holding her tongue, and so she decided to concentrate instead on making sure the servants were attending to the new guests as they should.