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A roleplay between Wickwright Finch and his plague, Hopkin, and Chauhn Clemmings and his plague, Clurie. The setting is just outside of Anica and the time is late evening, heading into sunset. The weather is windy, cold, but clear, and the road is less busy than usual as tightly bundled caravans as travelers seek places to sleep for the chilly night.

Leaving Anica was easy.

For two boys running through the city, trying to dodge and weave every which way to get rid of a howling banshee of a girl, it was more or less inevitable that they get lost. They were still unfamiliar with many parts of the city and they hadn't really taken it to heart to learn the roads or districts considering that they were going to leave eventually with the Malt brothers. Too late did they realize the worth of such a notion because Chauhn and Clurie were now running as if for their lives through the streets of the sleepy village as the night pulled in over them. Chauhn was urging them to run, trying to find some way of getting back to Georgie and Adal, but they were already far lost. Clurie realized this and ran along with his guardian, grinning to himself all the meanwhile. Despite the dreadfulness of their situation, he couldn't help but smile, his teeth exposed in a s**t eating grin as he followed along in the wet splotch of his Grimm's footsteps.

Chauhn had been pushed into the water fountain by a girl. Not just any girl, but Audrey, a strangely similar girl to Chauhn in almost every way but their personalities which fell at the complete polar opposite of the other. Casual conversation turned quickly from concern, to offense, to defense, and then to an all out hawking of names and cries and eventually Chauhn's humiliation. He was still running, red-cheeked with embarrassment, stiff with resignation, and dripping wet from the frigid cold of the water. Clurie almost believed that Chauhn wouldn't stop running not only because of the girl who chased behind, but because if he stayed still for too long he would freeze up into an icicle in the oncoming freeze of the night. Clurie was almost tempted to let him freeze.

"Come on, Clurie, just this way..." came Chauhn's wheeze from up ahead. They rounded a corner and filed through a dark tunnel, skipping along through the shadows.

"Clemmings, we're lost," Clurie announced lazily from behind. Chauhn paid no heed, he kept running. The Plague rolled his eyes and kept an even pace behind him, following along out of amusement than attachment to his Grimm. When they came to the end of the tunnel, Chauhn didn't come to a stop. He kept trucking along, into the barren lands of the Anican border. Clurie hopped to a stop beside the entry of the Anican border and called after Chauhn, cocking a bemused glare at his rather flustered anchor. "Clemmings! We're lost!"

Chauhn kept moving. The recent encounter had left him more that just flustered, but in a way, very deeply hurt. Old feelings were stirred, old sentiments and old ways of thinking that had been challenged with Clurie's growth and then dropped until today. He was reminded of his loneliness, his solitary stance as sole survivor of the Clemmings family and he was crushed. It wasn't something that he was or would ever be entirely over. So he kept moving, kept dragging his feet along in a numb canter until he had almost run into the encampment of a traveler. He only paused because he was too cold to move, shivering and shuddering in the darkening night while his Plague ran up to him from behind, some distance away and lumbering like a beast as he hunted down his Grimm.

"Clemmings! What, now you can't move? Don't expect me to carry you all the way back, Clemmings, because I won't! You can freeze out here for all I care!" came Clurie's raspy calls.

Chauhn didn't move. He stared onwards at the old man and the dying fire.

"Oh look, now you're done it," Clurie mumbled as he came to a stop behind his Grimm, peering doubtfully over his shoulder at the old man bent over the fire. "He's gaping at you like a codfish out of water...Must think you are some kind of lunatic." Clurie stayed put like that, hoping for some kind of response from his Grimm, but there was none to be said. He stood there shivering and wet, still dripping from the fountain, miserable and slumped in his water logged shoes. The old man, whoever he was, stared out at them, and, at length, called out to them. Clurie could hear him, and no doubt Chauhn could hear him too, but for some reason, they didn't respond. Clurie didn't think it was any of his business anyways. Instead of calling back to the old man, Clurie turned his attention back to Chauhn who looked like he was trying to figure out exactly what to say to the curious old man. Taking a big exaggerated breath, hoping to communicate his irritation that way, Clurie continued on, reaching forward to tug at Chauhn's sleeve. "Well, he's right, but still...Don't bug the old fish. Come on, let's start tracing our footsteps, I think we might be able to find our way back to the Malts that way...OUCH! Clemmings!"

Clurie snapped his hand back away from Chauhn, hissing at the sting spreading out over his hands. He had forgotten that his Grimm was soaking wet and touching anything wet with his gnarled fingers was a spell for disaster. He stuck his fingers into his mouth, blowing embers on them to dry them out again while he glared daggers at the back of Chauhn's neck. He wanted to push the boy for doing that to him, shove him over and make him fall into the snow, but he would have to put his own well being on the line to follow through with that foul inclination.

Thankfully, though, the yelp of pain was enough to get Chauhn to register the fact that Clurie was there, and the boy turned to him with a distant look, his own eyes welling with tears and his face pursed into a frown of frustration. When he locked eyes with him, they shared a calm moment of common hurt, and stood for a while more, staring back as if in a contest. Clurie was the first one to blink and break free though, and he twisted his face from a grimace into a snarl. He recognized that look in Chauhn's face. It really steamed him up.

"Stop looking at me like that," Clurie barked.

Chauhn, in response, let loose a tear. It crawled down the pained look on his face, a look filled with such familiar hurt and longing that Clurie knew exactly what that meant. He was thinking of his brother again, thinking of the way he hoped Clurie would fill in that empty hole of missing family, and before Chauhn could so much as take a steadying breath, Clurie burst into a defensive howl.

"I'M NOT YOUR CLURIE!" he screamed and he launched himself at Chauhn, taking him by the collar and shaking him. Chauhn choked, throwing up his arms about his neck to try and pry his Plague off of him, but their frustration was shared. Instead of allowing himself to be choked, Chauhn dropped his knees out from under him, trying his best to rip or twist free from Clurie's hold. He wouldn't in all his life lift a finger against his Plague, though, not again, he had already done to much to harm him and he wasn't about to start again now, but still he had to do something to get away because Clurie didn't share his sentiments. Clurie threw a backhand across the boy's face, sending sparks and embers into the air, and they rolled into the thin snow.

"Geddoff me, Clurie!" Chauhn gasped, trying to break free while also trying to use himself as a barrier between Clurie and the harmful snow, "Get....Clurie...! Stop! You're going to hurt yourself!"

"I hope you freeze to death out here, Clemmings! You good for nothing, whimpering and weeping boy, you!" Clurie hissed at him. They collapsed again into the snow, rolling amid puffs of white, and, hilariously enough, closer to the campfire light of the astounded old man watching nearby.

From the jumbled and shaking world that was Chauhn's bouncing head, he could just barely see over the tangling of his and Clurie's arms to where the lit figure of the man stepped away from the light of the fire and into shadow. He was coming closer. Still trying to keep himself underneath Clurie for the sake of keeping him from the deathly snow, Chauhn tried to pry his Plague from him, stretching his neck in vain to try and rasp out warnings and pleas, but to no avail. Clurie was as emotional as him at this point in time, though expressing it in a completely different manner than Chauhn's unwarranted tears. Chauhn tried uselessly to push him back, wedge his arms between himself and Clurie, when Clurie spat cinders into his face.

"I wish I could be rid of you and those blasted green eyes of yours!" Clurie shouted, "I hate you for what you've done to me! You hear me, Clemmings? I hate you!"

Chauhn screamed. Given new energy with pain, the boy wrenched his arms back, readying to lay a solid blow into the side of Clurie's face, when he dropped his fist and began to wail and cough, whipping his head back and forth in a vain attempt to scatter the cinders from his face. He pat uselessly at his cheeks, scrubbing furiously and squinting his eyes shut. The unfortunate thing about that was that Chauhn couldn't see the bend and dip of the old man nearby as he worked his fingers into the snow and pressed together a snowball from the drift.

Clurie didn't see it either. So livid was he, focused on making Chauhn's face contort into anything but that longing and somber look, to pull back that protruding lip into a frown, or something, anything but that look that he so often gave him, that Clurie didn't care about anything else happening around him. He didn't even care for the fact that, by holding Chauhn and shaking him, he was damaging his hands with the dampness of his clothes. Instead, he chose to forget about the steam rising between his gnarled fingers. He laughed aloud though, to watch Chauhn panic and wipe desperately at his face, victorious at least in that.

"If you do not cease right now, you terrible rascals, I will use this."

Clurie just barely heard it, and more importantly didn't care. He gave a quick glance, just to see where the old man was now, and upon giving a double take, surprised to see him so close now, he paused for a moment in his heated debate with his Grimm. Clurie's face pursed itself into a scowl, not really registering what it was that the man held in his hands.

Chauhn, on the other hand, knew perfectly what it was once he was able to blink past the cinders on his cheeks and crane his head over the balled up fist of his Plague. He gasped, shaking his head and throwing his arms up in a wild flailing. "No, please! Sir, don't use that, please, you don't understand!"

Then Clurie understood. His black eyes widened into circles underneath the shadowy brim of his hat, and he immediately threw Chauhn in front of him, using the other boy's body as a shield against what could potentially be a whole new world of pain. "What the hell do you think you're doing, you old coot! Don't throw that!" Then, peeking out from behind Chauhn's trembling shoulder, he sneered at him, having difficulties disguising his fear, "If you want to get hot ash and cinders stuffed down your throat, go ahead and throw it, but don't think that you'll get away with it! I'll see to it that you eat ash!"

"Clurie!" gasped Chauhn, aghast, "Remember your manners! He means no harm, he's just trying to help. Thank you, sir-"

"Means no harm?!" said Clurie with a squeak in his voice, "He's holding a snowball."

"Apologize to the man," Chauhn demanded softly, sniffling with a miserable moan as he wiped again at the tears and embers on his face, "Insulting someone is not the way of the Clemmings. We-"

Rage once again possessed Clurie and with a throw of his arms against Chauhn's back, he pushed him forwards to the old man, but the youth's feet tripped and caught in the snow, sending him face first into the drift before the old man's feet. He lifted up spluttering and coughing, looking up at the old man's knees. Behind him, Clurie stamped his foot into the snow with each word, curling his ember fingers into fists in a display that would closely resemble that of a toddler with a tantrum, "I! AM! NOT! A! CLEMMINGS!"

Once it was mentioned that he was a Plague, Clurie stiffened up like a boy that had been caught at thievery. His cheeks burned with a heat, crackling and peeling back into raw ember that glowed bright orange as he shrunk into the darkness underneath the brim of his hat. He pinched his shoulders tight and pinched his fingers together tighter, screwing his mouth into a childish frown.

"Good to see your eyes are working, old man," Clurie muttered. Then, snapping his gaze to the little Plague that pried his way out of the folds of the man's coat, Clurie turned his frown inside out and worked it into a sneer, "That's the point, half-pint. It would hurt to eat ash!"

Chauhn pushed himself up from the ground, shivering miserably. He was still wet and now having rolled in the snow, he was much much colder, and doing anything with any amount of grace was out of the question. With a clutch of his arms about his chest, he steadied himself upon his feet and stepped between the old man and his Plague, shivering so violently that he seemed hardly able to work as a feasible blockade. He leveled a deadly warning glare at his charge, and then looked upon the old man recently named fellow Grimm. "Please, don't take to heart anythin' that my Plague has to say..." he said with a chatter of his teeth, "He's all brimstone and crackle, but no flame. He's not a Plague of fire so much as he's a Plague of ash and cinder. But he's hurt with snow, anythin' by water, nonetheless, so please don't...Yeah, don't throw snowballs. You'd hurt him a lot."

"I can take it!" Clurie announced from behind with a huff. "But I don't know if he'd be able to take a-"

"Clurie, please..." Chauhn cut his Plague off again, turning to look with him with a firm and definite furrow of his brow, before he nearly doubled forward with cold. He turned to the man named Wickwright with a straightening huff, setting back his shoulders in a determined attempt to remain polite and upstanding. "This is my b...My Plague...Clurie. I am Chauhn...C-Clemmings. Chauhn Clemmings, sir. It is a pleasure, though I regret the circumstances of our meeting, to meet a fellow Grimm and Plague."

"Cut the sweet talk, Clemmings," Clurie blurted, folding his gnarled and ashen arms across his stomach as he fought of the urge to chew anything burnable within a twenty foot radius, namely Chauhn's coat. He could feel the wetness where it stained his hands and self, dampening his skin and ember glow, hurting him in a way that a skin rash might hurt a human being. He needed energy to draw from to make it go away, make himself nice and dry again. He resorted to expressing his hunger and hurt as irritation at Chauhn. "He's already seen your true self so don't try and sugar coat it!"

"He's not usually so brash," Chauhn offered helplessly, "We're just lost, troubled, and tired. We can't seem to find our way back to our companions before the chill sets in and...it's worrying to us both. Your offer is kindly..."

"You have anything to eat?" asked Clurie suddenly, peeking out from behind Chauhn's shoulder with a sudden want and longing in his vast black eyes.

"Anything burnable," Chauhn interjected again. He gave a terrible shiver, "Flammable. He eats ashes. If it's not a bother."

"Ash and cinders is wonderful! The best, actually," said Clurie. The Clemmings boys moved forward and into the warmth of the light, settling in close. This wasn't the best of situations, but at least they would make the best out of it. Clurie made sure to sit away from Chauhn, still bitter at him for their scuffle, and he dug his hands into the embers of the fire, taking the hot cinders and stuffing them into his mouth, ravenously chewing upon them like they were grapes, popping them between his teeth and grinding. It was a great change of pace, for up until then, he had been eating little else than used up flyers from street sides and over toasted bread. It was hardly a meal compared to raw and fresh cinders from the fire. Clurie was beside himself with poorly hidden relief.

Knowing that his Plague wanted nothing of him, Chauhn moved himself towards the opposite side of the fire, pulling the traveling cloak tossed at him tight around his shoulders. His eyes widened at the sight of the little Book Plague, now out of the coat and more easy to see. He was another Phasmas, like his little Clurie once was. A pang of familiarity rang through Chauhn's heart then, glancing sadly at his Quietus as he stuffed his face with ash and glowing embers. But then he got distracted once more. There was an even more familiar word hanging on the air now, one that brought a rare look of excitement to the boy's face. "Imisese, sir? You're Imisese?" Chauhn looked with wide eyes at the old man, swallowing with hope, though he knew not what for, "I am Imisese too! I may not look it, for my father was a Mishkanite, but I lived in Imisese until I traveled here to Shyregoad for training." He heard Hopkin's voice pip again and he smiled tiredly at the little Plague from where he clung to Wickwright's sleeve. "The pleasure's mine," he said to the little Book Boy before turning again to the man. "A book! That's amazing, you made a book, sir? I can't hardly read them, but I've always wanted to. Don't offer my hungry Plague any materials of yours, he's quite content with the embers, I'm sure. A book...I'm trying to learn how to read now. I'm learning how to write too! A scribe was once teaching me, but we've...We've fallen out of contact. I've learned how to write my name. But to have a Plague from a book...I'm glad that he was of your own making and not...something else..." He glanced sadly at his own Plague who was made from, not a book, or something of Chauhn's making, but rather the flesh and blood of his own little brother. Chauhn gulped, a shadow falling upon his face.

Clurie looked up and squinted his black eyes at the little book plague, his mouth dripping with still glowing embers and smeared with ash. He sniffed at the Phasmas, pouting, "What are you going on about? You make no sense whatsoever. Is this Plague always like that?" he looked up with a pursed and irritated brow at the Jawbone man. "He must really get annoying."

"Clurie! Hold your tongue!" Chauhn whimpered at his Plague. There was no way that they were going to make a good impression on this Grimm. Sighing heavily and looking at Wickwright with the best apology he could make with the swell of his green eyes, the youth followed after him as he led the boy towards the wagon. "I'm so sorry, sir."

"Better yet, I'll stuff it." said the Ash Quietus, calling after him, and he shoveled in another handful of ashes.

"Please do!"

The two Clemmings boys settled in as close to the fire as they were willing, Clurie more so than Chauhn, who stuck his hands into the embers to pick out choice lumps of burning charcoal which he devoured with a relieved moan and lick of the lips. Chauhn, on the other hand, outstretched his worn hands to accept the man's offering of cheese and sausage, sources of protein that Chauhn hadn't seen in days. Beforehand, the easiest food to come across was bread, cheap and plentiful in comparison of other foods which were, at the moment, hard to come by. Trade had been poor in the provinces of the Shyregoad region, especially after all that had happened with the Cultists and the diseases. It was a happy fact to notice that there was an influx of more substantial things in the market and to be given such these as cheese and sausage was nearly enough to make Chauhn weep for joy. He took it gratefully, thanking the man profusely before he took careful bites of the meal, savoring each chew before he swallowed. It was only after he had gotten in a few bites that he was able to speak in response to the man's conversation.

"I used to live on the coastline of Imisus, in a place called Marro. I don't know if you know of it...I tried to join the Council, but something happened...I joined the Fellowship as an Augur after I was disbanded from the Scientists, adopted into service by Lord Yizhaq, but we have since lost his grace as well, disbanded yet again," said Chauhn with a delicate voice. It was still hard to speak aloud of Clurie and he's misfortune, their inability to find a comfortable play to stay or even wonder about calling home.

Clurie, from the other side of the pit, interjected hotly, "Disbanded? We were kicked out, abandoned! Just tossed out on the streets!" Then quietly, bitterly, the Plague muttered, "I was supposed to be with Hayat forever...She said she'd protect us...But she lied! Now look at us! Crawling on the streets like desperate little orphans again!"

Chauhn shot a dreadful glare at his Plague, urging him to silence, "We have Georgie and Adal now, Clurie, don't dismiss them so easily!" He turned again to Wickwright, ignoring his Plague who now turned to devour his embers with haughty anger and misplaced rage. He glanced at Hpkin, nodding at him as he devoured his information on reading. Three days, the little book boy had said, three days to learn reading and yet it was taking Chauhn something close to three years. He tried not to think about it, his gaze still on the little book boy. He said hopefully, "Now we're learning with the Malts, who teach us words and magic. We're very thankful for the hospitality and taking us in. They're the only ones we know that can teach us right now. We would look for a new tutor but times are rough...We don't know where to go."

"Except we can't find our way back to them at this time of night! Everything's too dark to figure out which way's which," said Clurie with a huff and a shiver. He tried to hunch closer to the flame, his gaze constantly checking back over his shoulder at the creeping snow behind them. When he heard the little piping of the book plague, Clurie pinched his nose at him over the flicker of embers still freckled across his lips, "It is no great shame to eat embers, it's what I'm made of! It's as simple as snow gathering more snow or water gathering into puddles! Would you accuse the ocean for eating rivers and rain?"

Chauhn shrugged his shoulders, his head shaking atop his head. "We've met a few Anhelo, Sir Sloane," Chauhn took a painful swallow at the reminder of his once hero, "Adal Malt, and a few others from our travels, but I have never seen another Plague eat like Clurie does. I think it's because he's made of ashes, sir. A fire needs to keep burning in order to stay alive. Clurie needs to eat that kind of heat and collect ashes to maintain himself."

"I can heal from anything as long as I have enough ash," Clurie added, "Wanna see?"

Chauhn furrowed his brows, "Clurie, not while we're eating."

"What kindness and fortune we have had, we value very much," said Chauhn hastily, trying to make sure that the man didn't interpret their unloading of history as a dumping of fodder with which to gain the old man's pity. He didn't want that at all. Pity was something poisonous, Chauhn was convinced, and he wasn't about to let this man interpret his honesty as yearning for such. "It may be hard, but we are grateful all the same for the chances that we have come upon and it is, despite everything, an adventure! And it is a life worth living." He hoped that that would do, at least, for now, to keep Wickwright gushing at them. He didn't have to hope for long, though, because it seemed the man was ready to accept it as fact and move on in the conversation, something that Chauhn took to with relief and then surprise as he mentioned familiarity with his home. His eyes brightened, his mouth dropping a bit in a small gape.

"You have seen Marro? Was that before the winter of 1410?" Chauhn asked hurriedly, admittedly starving for information regarding his old home town. It had been years since he had left, tucked in the back of Lord Yizhak's caravan, a tiny Clurie tucked into his collar. He wondered what was the state of his old home, if it was still standing, if it hadn't been destroyed in the riots and the fire that had swept through Imisus not long ago. But there were other things that he was curious about too, like his talk of the Bone and his work with the Council, the former which he knew nothing about and the latter which he held regretful feelings for. He spoke up, voicing his questions on the other as well, "You keep mentioning things about the "Bone"...What is it? Does it have to do with the Council?"

"Jawbone," edited Clurie with the stuffing of his hand into the fire. He grabbed another chunk of blasted wood and snapped a portion of it off with his teeth. Rolling the embers in his cheeks, he let the warmth fill him as he then turned a wary eye to the talkative Excito. He didn't like his tone. "We might not have an idea of where we're going with the Malts, but at this point it doesn't really matter to us just as long as we have a roof over our heads and something to do. If you want truth, then I guess we're trying to read and write, get a better grip on our powers, but that's it for us. I don't really see the point right now in having something as lofty as a truth. We're just trying to get by. Besides," Clurie said with a side long glance at Chauhn, mistrusting and full of contempt, "I think we're figured out the truth already. It's only a matter of getting him to accept it."

Hearing the harsh words from Clurie prompted a look of hurt from Chauhn, but instead of giving into the Plague's obvious jabs at their previous argument, the boy focused his attentions on Wickwright, attempting to assure him of their safety. "Yeah, drifting ducks that we are, we've been able to find safety with the Malts and that's more than we can ask for. Georgie is a Grimm as well. So it's nice to have another boy my age, in my same situation. It's been a blessing, really, to even have a friend like him! It's only a matter of finding them again. Sometimes they move the caravan when we're away with chores or shopping and it just takes a little while to find them again. It's not too hard, it's just that it's...Well, it gets complicated at night." He was sure that he had avoided getting into any situation where Clurie might cause some kind of disturbance, but as he willingly spoke to Wickwright, CLurie, on the other hand had returned his attention to Hopkin, who's tiny voice asserted the fact that Clurie was a cannibal to which Clurie gave a mindless shrug. It would only be a matter of time before both Hopkin and his Grimm focused their attention onto Clurie whose cheeks were glowing with the attention he was receiving, something which Chauhn wasn't too fond of considering the events that usually followed after. He spoke up half heartedly, trying to convince the democratic vote to think back on their decision. "Oh, uh, while it's interesting to see Clurie's powers and all, I don't think it would be smart to do it right now when he doesn't have a lot of ash to eat."

"Can it, Clemmings," Clurie snapped proudly. He got up from his seat by the fire and looked around his pockets to find one of the small carving knives he kept on him, generally for carving things like apples or tightening the screws on the side of the Malt's caravan. He whipped it out of his pocket and flipped it open, holding it out for both Hopkin and Wickwright to see. "An ordinary blade, gentlemen, but not an ordinary wielder!"

Chauhn put his head into his hands, unwilling to watch the demonstration. Harm of any kind in relation to Clurie was something he simply couldn't watch without feeling sick to his stomach.

Clurie, on the other hand, felt nauseous butterflies of excitement. No one had ever been so interested in his strengths before without his own forcing of it on others. Now he had a willing audience and like Hell he was going to let that pass. He held up his hand and then pressed the small knife into Wickwright's hands, smiling up at him with anticipation. "You, sir, thank you for volunteering! Now what I want you to do is to cut off my fingers. Go on! I promise it doesn't hurt me like you think it would. It feels like a burning feeling, that's all. Just go for it! Hold my wrist and cut off my fingers!"

"Clurie, I really don't think--" muttered Chauhn, still hiding his eyes.

"And don't listen to the Clemmings kid. I'll be alright, I promise! You want to see the coolest power in all Plague-dom? I'll show you, but you have to trust me. Cut off my fingers!"