Pembroke Castle echoed with pitter patters of footsteps and followed with desperate huffs; a fox rushed through the halls at egregiously desperate speed, pushing the rows of nobles and laborers away from his general space. His piqued breath aroused concern amongst his colleagues and inferior servants, staring at the fox while he disappeared into the allure and towards the Room of Consultation. 

The vulpine finally burst through the open door, where the greying, wolfen figure of Duke Herrington IV, Royal Commander Gareth Fein II, and six demimondes sat. They were provided with a long table with all assortments of all of the leisurous types of cuisines in the Old Westmeister, which included some arrangements of rich hams. Two templars seemed to guard the doorsill, both of them had their greatswords drawn upon the vulpine's intrusion. In the background, stood a bard, with his charming lute who paused his tune upon seeing the fox ungracefully barge in.

“Your Graciousness!" The fox exclaimed, sweat pouring down his red, morning daywear peacoat.  "Mortiz Vincent has been apprehended!"

Vale Herrington lifted his gaze from the table. Despite being surrounded by wealth in which he could drown in, his soul was as calamitous as a poor man of a thousand sorrows. Not a single fallen woman of town- let alone six- could ever mend his fractured spirit. 

Yet, despite his torment, the forthcoming news finally made a change onto the wolf's expression. His darkened gaze was now of a brighter, flicker of hope. Herrington's fox underling could see his expression become brighter through his shocked- but galvanized- expression. 

It was hard to win any satisfaction, but months of mourning led up to this final victory.

“You… You have to be jesting! Have they truly, at long last?" Vale demanded, arising from his seat as he slowly closed in towards the smaller vulpine. Grabbing both of his shoulders with desperate intensity, his stare remained to glimmer with resolve.

"My grace, I speak no lies, I swear on my life!" Exclaimed the fox, vigorously nodding.

“By…- By my God! All of you, OUT!" Duke Herrington finally loosened his hands from the fox's arms. Turning back towards the courtesans, Herrington dismissively waved towards his inferiors crowding the table, who eventually scrambled out of their seats to leave. The guarded templars also withdrew their swords, silently following the workers behind them to ensure crowd control to not arouse any skepticism. Out of the people, only Fein II and the fox remained. He stood up from the table and slid the square lumbar down to secure the door. Secrets lay beneath the lairs of the castle, and one of scoundrelous intentions holds the souls of the royals.  

"To think that such filth could so callously take my son's life, and then attempt to sleep for another day, it fills me… With such… Revulsion." Herrington began to pace around the room, his eyes riddled with an ill, demented expression etched complimenting his fanged grin. 

“My boy, my precious, darling boy. He…- He suffered greatly, that wretched blackguard left him to bleed out in the streets like a common sewer hoodlum. Had the Wolfhound not done themselves this favor, it would lead me to believe that the hope for justice would remain forever…- unsatisfied."

“Your word of justice is none but a sickly word, all due respect, your highness." Gareth finally spoke up, approaching the fallen royale apprehensively. Despite his husked, elderly face, laid a body that endured wars beyond the grand duke's comprehension. “Justice is the reward only rightful to those who fight for vigilance and duty, not for the traitors who reap terror on our streets, especially none of that bastard, Wojtek Zuev, himself."

Being the royal servant of the Grand Duke, as well as the General of the Military Garrison of Prestoria and former knight of the 11th Squadron of the Storming of the Scot, the zealous faith which Gareth had of the Old Westmeister was depleting by the minute. Fein II was not thrilled with these undiplomatic trades that had occurred ever since the letter was sent to the Wolfhounds. Unable to fathom why Lord Herrington IV had decided to tap his wager into the hands of the criminals, he could only criticize what was happening. 

“Why must you force yourself to wallow in my success, once again, General Fein?" Herrington's moment of joy would be depleted by Gareth's subjugation, trading the same expression of scowl back to the husked officer before him. “Does my son's death appease you so much that you show such discontent when we capture such… Miscreant?"

“Zuev's words only wretched with lies when he took an oath during his duties as a constable years ago. He broke the foundation of the Gizmovalian Garrison due to his avarice. He blinded himself of malfeasances in our streets for a pinch of shillings on the same types of felons that you want dead. And yet, your orders are in his hands?" 

“And yet, your men in the Prestorian Garrison remain to refer to this traitor as…- What doth you all call it? 'Slippery as a… Pig shit?'" Lord Vale took a step towards the larger ursine.  

“Somehow, General, your soldiers have encountered numerous difficulties of capturing a damning wan wolf, one with the demure of a peasant." Herrington eventually turned his back away from the bear, and reached over to the floored table for a glass of century wine. The grapey, distilled scent was unfamiliar to both Fein and the four-eyed vulpine- whose emotions draped of angst from the arising tension between Vale and Gareth. 

“Had King Simon I himself not granted the Black Behemoth enough jewels of England to make this corrupted… 'Shillings Board,' I would not have to lose my men's time over such tomfoolery." Gareth could see that the Grand Duke was slowly losing his own euphoria. “You have sown chaos amongst our people- chaos which reigns asunder of a nation which is already on the verge of disintegration. The sun's demise would be nothing, had you and our disgraced King's brigade make new power through those who want to vehemently destroy the revolution of New England, or dare I say, the Ol' Westmeister." 

“QUIET!" Herrington slammed the bottled wine onto the table, upon hearing the critique from his inferior. Vale was audibly breathing, his composition breaking merely in seconds upon Gareth Fein II's apprehension.

“Tom…- Tomfoolery…?" The grey wolf turned back, the wineglass squeezed against his palms. He paced towards Gareth once more, the grapey liquid spilling over his boney fingers. 

“Tomfoolery?! You? Faltering step-by-step because of the King's tomfoolery?! Doth you lose the tongue for your own self-respect, Gareth?!" The Duke pressed a finger against the cold, iron chestplate of the large bear. 

“My Father spoke nothing but praises for you and Knight Hayden of the grandest achievement of conquering the Land of the Scots! When my beloved father perished, and left you the duty of the Prestorian Garrison, I only ever thought of you HIGHLY! I have heard many tales. Tales of your grandeur… Tales of you, and your men, despite the overwhelming Scottish cannons, rifles, and artillery, that you prevailed. YOU."  The thin glass of his wine finally snapped between his palms, and his rage was disturbed by the velvet wine which formed a puddle on his shoes.

Vale let out a disgruntled sigh, before turning back around. Sitting down on the center throne, he waved the bystanding vulpine over to him. 

“...Marquess Joseph Ela-Bellagrade."

The fox eventually scrambled towards the presence of his superior, kneeling adjacently to Vale's throne. 

“Y…-Y…-Yes, my lord?" Joseph stuttered, his french accent becoming much thicker by his angst. 

“Please make a letter on behalf of my word, and have one of our Constables track down Colton Johnathan Wayton, once again." Herrington looked towards Fein II, both trading a scowl as equally as hateful. 

“I will make a deal that would ensure that the blackguard falls under the throne, and not to another hooligan." 

_____________________________________________

The woody creeks of the Ol' Bessie was a song for the Wolfhounds, and the roiling dark waters which held the small boat in place was a chorus to their ears. Anyone on the decrepit decks would have succumbed to insanity from the constant dance amidst the waves, if not for their lifestyle and repetitive experience on the docks. 

To Wojtek Zuev, obviously, it was home. 

The coach would eventually make it within four hours to the London Bridge, in which Wojtek, Frye, and Abraham would transport the unconscious bounty onto the train leading to the City Region of Gizmovale. In total, the trip was a measly 9 hours. 

The boat was docked by the Gluttonous Tavern, which was at the very North of Renby Street in the Hull of Bethenway. It was not far from the Wayton's Realm and Estate, which was now demolished and blueprinted for the Vaughenhouse Engine Facility.

The hour hand of Kronikus, the large aforementioned clock which sat under the London Bridge, finally struck 2 in the morning; the early dawn was quiet, Zuev heard no sounds other than one of the crew member's countless attempts at scratching down the barnacles from the sea-weed ridden starboard. 

'Seems like Blanchette lost by a few folds.' Wojtek remarked to himself upon seeing a white-furred rat, Barthelemew, sit begrudgingly by the bosun's chair and wipe off the gunks. 

The scrubjob was an unsatisfying, but well-purposed job. Alas, it was a bittersweet consequence from losing a gambit of cards. 

Ol' Bessie was considered the god of the Wolfhound's. The ship was on its last legs, but it was their only source of going overseas, since boats were not a thrifty catch. Wood, in general, is a valuable resource given the cold and unphotosynthesized ecosystem.

The ship herself saw the final moments of sunlight. The battered, roughed up deck has endured many days of long and arduous travels, as if the spirit of the boat itself was on the verge of leaving its vessel from the many decades it stood. Its keel was green from the rampant algae, and the railings were white from the dried out salt. The hull was husked, and the bleached out sails were folded and dusty from the sand. The schooner was of a fairly decent size, stretching almost 50 meters in its length. On top of it, the aromic cedar faded, replaced with utter doldrum. 

Upon seeing the captain with his haul, Barthelemew dropped his brush; a shocked, but happy grin etched his face upon seeing his captain. “Holy shit!" 

Less than five minutes had passed, and the remaining ten men gathered around the entrance of the docks leading to the Ol' Bessie. Some of them had their girths polished in the brothel across from the Shameless Glutton, and some surrounded with the luxury of fungal-distilled alcohol for their own set of pleasures. 

Frye and Abraham were overwhelmed with questions amongst the men. 

“Was he a hell of a scrapper like what the paper reads?" Oliver Hunchkist, a tall Aussie kangaroo, asked first and foremost upon the crowd. 

“Did 'e hurt one of ye's? What happened?" The Shetland Sheepdog, Mackenzie Thomas, interjected, busting through the crowd to stare eye-to-eye with Abraham. 

“Did Cap'n do the Bellend Bust on 'em?!" Derby Mallow, the gigantic Corgi and brute of the Wolfhounds, pushed deeper into the crowd.

Both accomplices were surrounded by an obnoxious, British and mild foreign accents spewed all around, making the hamster overwhelmed and flustered from this attention. 

“Calm, CALM! You all are pissin' me and Frye off! I 'aven't got me' ale yet and all of you bloody buggers are jumping the throat!" The hamster exclaimed, partially exasperated by the turn of events. “At least bother the Captain with these questions! The little shit sharded me with a lamp, talk to me after I get glass out of my fucking arse!" 

Abraham was vehemently grouchy from all sorts of negative inflictions. He had been walking for hours upon hours trying to find the bounty. His face was bruised from the fight he had, and to top it all off, parts of his skin were shredded by glass. 

“You can't just leave us on the edge, frère!" Lucifer Crowley, a French navigator caracal of the syndicate, interjected. Crowley should have not expressed his impatience to the hamster, given that the distaste for France was stronger than anyone in the group. “If he's worth two bars, he's got one story!"  

Abraham glared at the French navigator with a scowl on his brow. His fists were arched and curled enough that he could uppercut the caracal. 

“Frye! Simeon! Old Man Jay!" 

The crowd finally stopped their gaggles, turning to the feline captain who was hauling the limp body of Mortiz Vincent towards the boat. “All three of you, come beckon!" 

Out of the crowd of twelve men, there were two distinguishable buckies which Wojtek had relied on in this situation:

Simeon Machlich, a goat from the land of Slavyedinnaya (The United Slavic Nation), was a former combat medic in the last era of the Seven-Decades War. Fixing wounds with makeshift stitches for the Cossacks during the 1786 Rebellion of Stararus, the goat was the closest thing to a 'doctor.' His sleight of hands, however, was not used for the content of battle. 

Last but not least, Jayden Vincent, an irishman otter in his fifties. Had his surname not come from the 'Vincent' brigade, the old man would not have an excuse to come to the cramped boat. He was needed as a secondary voice of reason, or an opposition. Despite being the man to steer the boat, Wojtek had enjoyed the head-to-head altercations they both had. However, he could not rely solely on other people, as some of the members were echo chambers to Zuev's decisions. 

The two traded a confused look towards each other, following Frye towards Ol' Bessie while Abraham was submerged into the words and demanding questions from the crowd. 

Wojtek had placed and wrapped the wolf against a mossy, wooden barrel that was inside of the bunker room of the ship. The room itself was small; it barely fit the entire team, and could not hold its weight the entire Wolfhound into it without having the boat cramp up and sink. The scent of sweat mixing in with a stench of liquor and hardtack was an unmistakable aroma of the seaman's life. 

Simeon got into action with his pocket collection of aid and instruments, tending to the wound which Mortiz had done on Wojtek's cheek. The old mustelid, on the other hand, remained to crouch down towards the other Vincent, who was tucked between a barrel of gunpowder, wrapped by the legs and hands.

“You let him slash you? Despite being armed with a Double-Barrel Gen II? Why?" The goat queried, examining the wound. He was thankful enough that the cut on his face wasn't enough to add to the collection of wounds on the lynx's face. Machlich rubbed a bottle of Yedin Spirit onto a cotton towel before pressing it against the lynx's cheek, who slightly flinched. 

“B'cuz." Wojtek simply replied dismissively. “I just wanted to." 

“That is what my two sons always use whenever the older one gives him a beating right in the face. 'Just because.' You play with life like a fiddle, just like my children." After sticking a wrapping tape against the cotton pad, Simeon smiled at his success. “How must you feel now, Captain Dice?

"All good. It'll be a bloody pain to deal with pulling me whiskers out of the adhesive, alas." Wojtek looked towards Jayden and the sleeping wolf.  “Old Man, we have some smelling salts stashed in the locker, should do the trick of waking up the bugger."

“Ye'know how much I hate when you call me that, boyo." Jayden straightened and walked toward the large cabinet of odds and ends.

Simeon eventually stood up from the wooden stool, watching as Jayden rummaged through the cabinet. 

"He's out like in the heaven's. A large quantity might do." The mustelid replied, handing the shaker towards Wojtek. 

"..Was he a difficult fight, may I ask?" Simeon asked again, shifting his rear to observe Mortiz. 

“He's nothing that I've seen… He's held out for this long, thanks to his cowardice." Frye crossed his arms, also looking at the direction of the wolf. “We wiped out six men. The Venom Blood group, who were also trying to get a piece of the treasure." 

“And why didn't you just let them kill 'im? We won't hafta go through feeding him and giving him water." Jayden approached the fainted lupine, his tone becoming more apprehensive.  

“This bellend snaked his way into the fuckin' crowd, and they opened fire." Frye replied coldly, making the mustelid roll his eyes. “If I let those fucking mongrels volley-fire into the crowd once more, there wouldn't be anyone in Prestoria left." 

Frye looked down at the unconscious wolf, his fists beginning to curl in anger. “Seven people on the streets, deceased, over some devil-damned cunt with his tail tucked into his own asshole." 

"I've seen worse." The lynx abruptly projected, sliding his paws down unto his waist. He stood up and walked over to Mortiz, lifting his chin with a finger. 

Wojtek's brows rose up; judging from his features, Mortiz neither appeared gluttonous nor impoverished.  For someone who spent his days living in the streets of the poorest regions of the Old Westmeister, he seemed to keep his fur, skin, and health in good condition.
"Bah, he looks like he's barely off mum's tit and already acting up like there's nothing left to lose. Yet, he's invested in trying to survive. A dangerous fuckin' combination, if you ask me." 

“We all act like that in 'is age. Kill some oldies on the monarch tables? Blimey, who 'aven't thought of that at this bugger's age?"  Jayden eventually held up the ceramic bottle towards the lynx's direction. “Although… I don't understand why ye' have to give the burden of not releasing him of his suffering." 

Wojtek glared at the senior, his usually-cheerful and aloof expression fading from his lips upon the otter's criticism. Despite having to express his intentions, however, he took the ceramic shaker from the otter's hand. 

"Thank ya' kindly." Wojtek knelt down before the sleeping wolf, cocking his head towards the goat. “Simeon, get our bounty on some seawater? Somethin' to wash his gut? I bet he'll be shooting out his stomach when he wakes up." 

As the goat left the sailor's room, Wojtek the captain pushed a disheveled barrel just a little closer to lower himself down in front of Mortiz as he waved the smelling salts in a circular motion around Mortiz's nose. 

“Zuev," Jayden took Wojtek by the shoulder, stopping him from waking up Mortiz. “I don't understand, lad. Why don't ye' just slit his throat and move on in our merry ways? Bloke is spillin' unluck all over the boat. We's got barely any mouths to feed as it is, it's too much of a hassle to sustain him before we send him off. Who's we kidding, too? He's gunna die, anyways! What would be the difference between him dying now, or dying a few days after from whoever we pawn this little bitch off to? The Black Behemoth will probably perk up on whiddling us, and we'd be dead, in a heartbeat, if we butt heads with them!" 

“As I've told you again, Old Man, 'tis more expensive when e's alive. Half of the buyers of the Old Westmeister alone won't take a dead body." Wojtek started to wave the ceramic salt shaker around Mortiz's nose. 

The Black Behemoth was the largest source of Old Westmeister's fear-mongering. There were only nine members within the Behemoth, and each of them had their own platoon of syndicators that they reigned over. The ship itself was known to tear leviathans into shreds. It could even destroy a whole region, given their arrangement of military artifacts they had stored up. Armed with weapons that were revered in the Old War, pirates traveling the Pacific or the Atlantis would rather kill themselves than watch their effortful adventures in the seas be reduced into one blow. Their ship is enough to slaughter the deep unknowns of the ocean.

Wojtek had neither met the captain, nor even jested the idea he would even feel intimidated by such auric power. Not because he felt narcissistic enough he would entertain the idea of taking on the captain, but rather the burden of living in an impoverished, ill-ridden country like the Old Westmeister was bigger in thought compared to an old man with nine of his ego-feeders. Even as a hindsight, his mother taught him one thing: never trust rumors. None, especially, ones of the Black Behemoth. 

"Hey, let 'de Captain do his own bidding. Have you forgotten that the Behemoth has better things to do?" The goat gave Jayden a smack behind the head upon returning with a glass cup and water he scooped from the ocean. "Do Vincents like yourself think about killing off, or sellin' their own kin?" 

“Vincents come from a long line that dates back to the sixteenth century! I know several Machlich's back when I was harborin' the ocean in the Yedin's. Do you know each of 'em? Do you know where they live? Oh! What about the wives they fucked while their husbands were fighting against Imperial Russian forces? Give me a break, do I look like a fookin' wolf to ya', meatface? My pops and their pops before them were Irish otters." Jayden waved off Simeon dismissively, his posture undeterred while he watched the young lupine finally wake up. 

“Dice, Are you sure it is in the right favor that you want to sell this boy? Why not give him a chance like you have done with everyone else on the 'Hounds?" Simeon placed the cup on the floor. 

“Look… He's far gone. Never had I've seen a bounty as high as two gold bars, and never had I ever seen the Grand Duke of Herrington himself ask for something like this either. Even if we did spare him, we would have too many people on our hands to deal with. Say we don't give them to the Prestorian Garrison or any felons that are willing to put hands on buying 'im, and keep him as our little ocean-pet instead. Not only we wouldn't have the future gold bars, but we would also perish a gruesome fuckin' death." Wojtek paused upon seeing Mortiz begin to slightly jerk his body.

All four men stopped their personal businesses, and observed while Mortiz's eyelids began to flicker open. His senses were slowly turning into feasible cognition despite his weakened torment. 

It took him a few seconds upon consciousness that the wolf was no longer in Prestoria anymore.  His face jerked upwards, as his first reaction was to hurl onto the floor. The combination of being roofied, as well as being hit right in the bell was too much for his small body to handle. He gagged, violently, causing all four men to take a small step backwards. 

A moment of silence passed. All eyes locked on the prisoner as if in momentary peace, mixed in the whisper of the waves and wind from outside the Ol' Bessie. Ungracefully, the captain dropped the salts on top of the barrel in which he sat on, and shoved his paw under his belt to pull out his trusty flask.

POP

In any other situation it would have been untimely, but the crew knew Wojtek all too well. His way of celebration was childish.

“AHOY! He lives!" The lynx exclaimed, undeterred by the unnecessary regurgitation as he took a huge swig of his booze. "Wakey, wakey, ye' little shite. Rough night, huh? How's your two lovemakers? Must've said your farewell to yer' future cum-goblins."

Frye couldn't help but roll his eyes as Wojtek would snap back to his casual, partly-comedic demeanor.  The crew watched as the lynx stretched his arm forth, shaking the drink in front of the wolf's face. If he had one talent, it was definitely making a joke of the worst situation for the captive. 

"Come now. Get some hair of the dog, mate. Will ya?" The lynx jested, his grin as smug as ever. 

'Lad's doin' his little happy-go-lucky again.' Jayden thought, rolling his eyes. 

Mortiz's first reaction was to jerk his head towards the hand that was to quench this unfamiliar thirst and spit at it with burning resentment. His eyes furrowed while he locked onto the lynx's smug gaze. If looks could kill, Wojtek would be swimming with the Whippersnappers.

"Fuck you, Bilge-Rat." Mortiz snarled dryly. "And fuck all of you sodomites!" The lupine angrily writhed against the rope that tightened around his body, which only made the lynx let out a boasty laugh. 

The cat shrugged mockingly, retracting his arm away upon being spat at. "Have it your way, mate." The feline casually took a step forth and grabbed the wolf's sleeve to wipe the vomit-spit clean from his arm. “You'd be lucky."  He muttered under his lips while he pulled back, taking another gulp from his canteen. 

Despite the room being occupied with people, the boat remained quiet. The other three men remained to ogle at the two talking. Frye, however, only leered at the other wolf before him, his arms crossed to convey his impatience of beating Mortiz's face in. 

"Welcome to Ol' Bessie, Vinney-boy! Such shame you're starting all the way down in the brig, she's quite a sight to see, alas." Wojtek leaned down, his cocky expression saturating into a neutral glare upon seeing Mortiz struggle against his constrict like a worm. The lupine himself could smell the cat's alcoholic breath.   

"Don't tense up on me, the rope is not going anywhere. Besides, my matey's are in the mood for smashing your teeth right into yer' guts. But luckily, my mood is much more important, and my mood for a story. Yer' story." The lynx finally leaned back, his face resting against his own hands. “Entertain us. How the hell did a pup such as ya'self paint a bloody target brighter than the sun-that-was onto his back?"

“And why should I?" Mortiz looked to the side, avoiding Wojtek's vision. 

“Are you deaf in the ear, boy? It's not a question. Tis' an order." The feline rolled his eye. 

“And if I do not comply with this order, are you going to kill me? Do you think I have everything to lose?" Vincent remained to turn his head away.

“No. Not even the flies that would suck your carcass off would be worth something to live for. I just think you hate yer'self enough that you don't care about biting it. But you're too much of a nancy-boy to give yourself up. I saw the way you fight. With vigor. With anger." The lynx grabbed the young wolf by his hair, forcing him to face him. Mortiz could smell the fungal liquor upon his warm breath. “You pretend that you don't care if you live er' die. And then fight like yer' life is some golden sanctuary." 

“You think I fought with purpose?" Mortiz jeered. “I only pursued because I was distracting the pr-" 

With one adept motion, Mortiz found himself recoiling his head back. Wojtek had swung his kukri blade towards the smaller mammal, the tip of the blade inching against the lupine's throat. Everyone in the room felt a choke against their necks from the sudden abrupt movement from their captain, especially with the wolf himself, who was now stunned to move. 

“You see what I mean? That glow in yer' eyes." Wojtek observed, letting go of Mortiz's hair and pulling the blade back. “You think I haven't seen your type of guys around? Acting all scared, running and having others who try to help you get hurt? And then say to them that you're makin' an effort to kill yourself and 'give up' just so you could swallow the guilt of havin' to think about the lives you indirectly murdered?" 

The lynx watched as Vincent's ears drooped, mostly from shame, and the other from humiliation from Zuev proving his point. 

“So tell me." The lynx repeated. “Why did'ya do it?" 

Vincent's eyes remained to glare down the single topaz brooch that was Zuev's eyes.. His scorned glare transubstantiated to one of pensive thoughts. 

"Because…- Because I was desperate." He began. “Ev'ryone knows the tale by then. People thought I did it so I could send a message to the 'Dying' Prestoria. Others thought I did it… Just because." 

Mortiz closed his eyes, his head hung low as he let out another breath in.

“I did it because the luck that was fated to me, never let me be so fortunate. 

The winter had left bodies mounting in the snow. Some used their meat to nourish themselves so they don't end up the same. My body refuted such degeneracy. I cannot bring myself to eat those who walk in two's. I needed to act accordingly, so I wouldn't join their coup de grace. Alas, the hope for a decrescendo into my inevitable descent to hell was fleeting by the hour.

I whiddled one of Herrington's friends, and got a lot of shillings just from a single pocket. I usually go for whomever is not wearing whatever shit that they scrounge out from the bins. The boy's attire was none other than someone with great fortune, and I had to jump into the opportunity. I didn't know what the hell I was thinking, having to bump into him and not be convinced that he would later come back and find me in the same hour. With the son, and three other fellows. 

Cornered me in the street when the clock struck the evening, and scruffed me. Hard. The young Herrington himself had those iron bars that screw in the bolts of train tires. After all, they were entertained by the idea of not keeping me alive; all of them saw the dead, but none of them knew how they died. Their plan was to throw me into the Fisher's Wish Bay, and watch me get eaten alive by the great unknown of the water."

Mortiz opened his eyes, facing back to the lynx once more. 

"And that's where my tragedy began. I pulled my knife and made a neat opening on him. Granted, I only wanted to scare them away before he could bite my dust with a brick he found from the sidewalk. Unbeknownst to me, however, I pulled my blade out at the wrong time. And now… The boy was on the floor, trying to cling to whatever life he had. The more he gasped, the more he choked. I watched his pain come to a torturous suffocation. He couldn't even scream. He could not even relinquish his parting words. And…" The male lupine stopped, and read the room for any negative reactions. The Wolfhounds had probably seen worse beforehand.

The lynx leaned back; he did not look any less merrier than he was before the story unfolded, as if he was relaxing in a pub. Wojtek silently observed Mortiz as he began to revel in his regret, before shifting his rear to lean towards the wolf, hands folded and together, resting on his knees.

"Ah, the good ol' blueblood's shtick. Makes sense." Wojtek rolled his eye. “Another do-no-good from deep within the keep decides to have a shot at street romance and try out the bandit's life for kicks, eh?"

“I… I was only trying to… To scare him off." Mortiz looked down at the floor once more, unnoticed that the cat began to polish his words with yet another loud gulp from his canteen, followed by an old tobacco stick catching up the flames. The room was now etched with a heavy scent of herbs.

“Gotta think. Must be mighty boring down 'ere, if they prefer to freshen up their ass-cracks doing safari's outside rather than stuffing their bloated faces full of wine or whatever the fook' they do. Been there, seen it. Might have broken a noble's bone or two before. All of that gold can get 'em finest blades and hardest plates, but coin doesn't get the skill now, does it?" Zuev pointed towards the young Vincent, to encourage the wolf to agree along with his ramblings.

Mortiz refused to respond, his eyes fluttering closed while the guilt began to marinate deep in his soul. As much as he could wallow over this catastrophe of his life, it felt a little refreshing to talk to someone about his cardinal sin. 

"Look." Wojtek began, taking a huff of his cigar. “I couldn't give less of a shite 'bout that little inbred's life. Barnacles on our boat are probably worth more than him for all I care. Yet I must say." 

The lynx pointed the smoking stick towards the lupine. “Ya' fucked up. Big. Even if ya didn't know who the mongrel was. Could have at least finished off his friends so no one would return to tell the tale, let alone recall your face. The whole Westmeister is ears-on about this. ESPECIALLY now as you're worth two goldies 'ccording to the Shilling's Board. Even if ya' did escape the brig somehow, they'd hound ye' down until the Duke passes away because of some kidney-fuckup from taking the piss ever-so-hard. Quite a fuckin' latrine you are in, kid."

"You don't have to tell me that I've fucked up." The lupine shamefully chorted, both eyes jerking up towards the lynx. "...So. What are you going to do to me? Kill me? Use me? Sell me to someone? How are you going to determine where I go from here?" 

“Capping yer' head outta your neck before I find someone to sell ye' only devalues the coins. I don't care if I sell ye' out to the Prestorian Garrisons, or to another bunkie that wants you themselves, no one's laying a single finger on you unless you do something ridiculous." Wojtek stood up, facing towards his men. “I s'pose we make some call-outs to everyone, yeah? Set a date for some people?"  

The men in the crowd were about to respond accordingly, but were interrupted by a sudden rocking motion of the boat, followed by light footsteps from the ceiling. It was soon enough that the leopard himself, Colt, had run down towards the basement bunk. His hand was occupied with another envelope, and Wojtek had known who it was from, judging by the stamp protruding from the open flap of the envelope.  

“Change of plans!" Colt exclaimed, exasperated and out of breath. Pacing over to Zuev, he handed the thin paper towards the captain, who took a quick look at the complicated, cursive characters with a blank expression. 

The other men in the room watched to see if their captain's expressions would change. After a while, however, Wojtek gave the leopard the envelope, undeterred. 

“I can't read." The lynx reminded Wayton, who took the letter before letting out a guttural sigh. 

“Herrington wants to top off the offer of the Shilling's Board." Colt looked down at the note. “He wants to make a compromise. Something better than amnesty."

 _______________________

The Kronikus finally struck at 10 in the morning, and the sun remained to stagnate over the sky. The cold day started when Barthelemew had to get back to the underbarrel of the boat to scrub off the cascading crystals of ice. 

Mortiz, on the other hand, could not tell what was conjuring from the other side. Because of his angst, he skipped the last, peaceful sleep that he could nourish himself before the great unknown. Even if he felt obligated to sleep, alas, Frye accompanied him. Rather unpleasantly. 

Vincent had no desire to anticipate what the final verdict would be. He knew whichever would come out next, would only guarantee an arrangement with the reaper. After all, being sold off to some higher power overseas, being tortured and possibly deflowered by the Wolfhounds, or tortured and executed by the royal guards, all lead up to his sickly demise. 

Fear-mongering over his consequences did not seem to scare him, especially since he had nowhere to flee. After all, there was no hope for this god-forbode earth. There was no hope for Mortiz's life. It felt like any path was a favor. Both kins were murdered ever since he was a pup, and the nurture he tried to thrive off in the Old Westmeister had put him into a coterie of pain amongst others. 

He only ever wished that once he did die, he would only wake up in a wooden cabin. Fire dimming brightly from a furnace beside him, blankets made up of wool and soft fibers that would entangle his body. He didn't care if there was someone on the great horizon waiting for him. He could only wish that he would find himself in a world where problems were a mere nihility. Preferably a wooden cabin. Like the one he had with his beloved parents.

Despite the comfortable embrace of death, however, the feeling before his demise was something he could fear. 

Mortiz was going to die tonight. 

Frye remained to beat Mortiz's face in despite seeing both his nose and mouth were making a mess on the floor from the blood. Vincent was lucky that no teeth flew right out of his mouth from how hard he was being clobbered. 

“Fucking mongrel!" Blake had hissed, before sending Mortiz another bash to the face with his boot. “Fuckin' pathetic little wretch, thinking you can weasel yourself out with words?!" 

Vincent took three more fists to his stomach, making him wheeze out sufferably and jerk his head down to his lap. Frye had pulled his face up by his hair, leering at the young wolf. 

“You truly think someone would mourn your passing?! Huh?! From the way you fuckin' live?!" Frye punched Mortiz once again, the grip on Vincent's hair tightening. “I would've willingly slit my own throat if I were to live like a little SHIT like you! Seven people! Dead! Because you couldn't just give yourself up, couldn't you?!" 

Mortiz only replied in an inaudible whisper, before his head was thrusted back against the barrel behind him. His brain rattled and rang, the surrounding screams of Frye's voice were drowned out, and all he could do was let the other wolf take him.

When Wojtek had entered the boat once more after a tet-a-tet with his hounds, he found Vincent bruised up from his chest to his face. His lips were cracked and smeared with blood, which dripped and traveled down to his lap as his head hung low. 

Frye finally pulled back, upon seeing the lynx come into the room. 

“You couldn't stop yer'self, could'ya?" Wojtek looked up at Blake after examining the barely-conscious wolf. 

“Remember what've swore to do when we were in Prestoria? He deserved it." Frye only replied back, leaving the room once Wojtek waved him off. 

The room felt quiet once more, and the two only exchanged a stare, accompanied by the whistling winds blowing through the walls. 

“Slept like shit, huh?" Wojtek knelt down towards Mortiz, after half a minute of staring at the disheveled state of Vincent. 

The constricted lupine did not answer. He looked down once more, his weakened state faltering his slim figure. 

“...What… What will it be." He finally coughed up. “Where… Where do I go from where I am…"

“Look. One of my men tried to seek salvation and spare you from whatever is coming for your head. I would've taken you in. But things are different now. It seems like the Grand Duke is having it up with you." Wojtek stood back up. “My mates and I decided. They've made an offer that even roughnecks of the seas can't topple off on. Four gold bars, with amnesty  ." The lynx began. 

“And what… You expect those who resent you… To appease your desires?" Mortiz closed his eyes. He knew what the verdict would be. 

Wojtek sighed. “I hope ye' know that this is nothin' personal. I gotta do what is right for me. And for my men."

“You wouldn't do this if there was no compromise. You all.. All of you only care if the chains of… Gold is dangled in front of you." Mortiz did not seem to elicit despair. If anything, Wojtek could hear a soft, but transparent chuckle escaping the wolf's breath.

“So… I go where I s'pose I belong… Huh?" Vincent finally mustered, his throat dry from the beating he had to endure along the way. “To the hands… To the hands of those who… Play the pieces…" 

“Wh…- What?" Wojtek raised a brow. For the first time in a while, he felt something twist in his gut. 'Did the bloke give up already?' 

“There's… There's… No fucking… Hope…" The lupine stammered. “You will… Always… Favor the ones with the more… Fortune." 

Wojtek had not expected Mortiz's sudden candor. This was the first time he had witnessed someone become euphonious over this. His expression, despite his usual disposition of calm and docile, soon aroused a primal shock. 

Mortiz's dismissive chuckle was eventually unraveled into a guttural and hoarse laugh. One of raw, unhinged manic.  

“Such a fucking WRETCH I become!" Mortiz howled. “To think this world, even for a FUCKING MOMENT, could grant me a shred of DESIRE!  To think I could find a different way through following where the riches are! How foolish I am!" 

Wojtek tried to stammer up a few words on his own to degrade Mortiz's breakdown. However, Zuev's thoughts were nullified by the lupine's shrieking laughter, which started to coalesce with tears. Vincent's head was jerked down against his lap once more. 

“We are the same. All of US! And yet, you would do ANYTHING to do what I have been punished for! ALL of YOU! Can't you SEE?!" 

The barrel which the lupine was tied up against started to rattle. The lynx could hear the rope strain against the confines of the wood, and he could feel his hands naturally reach towards his own holster. 

“They can wield torment beyond hell's reach to siphon me of FEAR, and yet I am not afraid! UNSHAKEN!" 

The boat reverberated with the lupine's laughter, to the point where Frye sprinted downstairs of the boat to observe the commotion. 

“YOU! ARE! ALL! ME!" 

Seeing how his own captain was frozen to his spine, Blake had marched towards the bounty, and swiped the barrel of his pistol against his head, incapacitating him out in one strike. 

Frye turned back to his superior, yielding his flintlock back onto his holster. The wolf could hear the lynx's audible breath, and it was truly the first time that he had seen Zuev ever so hesitant.

Wojtek's mind began to linger… The psychotic screams of his captive felt like a permanent scar that etched beyond his body. As he stood emotionless, he finally blinked back into consciousness. 

With one, exasperated sigh, Wojtek closed his eye. “...Get the men ready for tomorrow." 

_________________

With the preparations of ammunition, guns, and muskets ready, highnoon came early. 

A few kilometers from The Hull, afar from the main city in the Gizmovalean region lay a small, abandoned Bexley, or now called the 'Sunless Slumps.' 

The trail was tentative for the Wolfhounds who were assigned with the tasks. However, Lucifer Crowley, the aforementioned French Caracal, was at use for his navigation skills which paved a confusing path towards the stagnant piles of empty buildings. 

The flickering lights barely made out the path ahead. The God-forsaken streets shrouded in almost total darkness were a place for the lowest of the low. The borough, supposedly, is where the Roadies of Gizmovale come and fornicate to appease their manic deviancy. The lowest of the lows only ever step forth, but the emptiness only shone a place of opportunity for those to make a deal without drawing eyes. 

Rows and rows of alleyways on each street was a hand-made bog of mud and refuse. The air smelled of decay. Not even a single gush of wind could penetrate the endless labyrinth of dead ends and crumbling passageways. With the overwhelming mountains of buildings, one could get lost in the town once submerged into the oldwalls, which were cracking under the weight of humid foul fog. Perhaps it's for the best that lack of lamination blotched out all the decrepit details. 

In any other circumstances as always, the captain would have smirked at just a mere thought of bluebloods forced to tread upon this swamp, but he knew better. A trade as big as this couldn't have gone down any other way. 

The feline turned his head around, looking back upon his own. He had requested five men, which was substantial enough to secure a back-up and guard his flanks. He had the usual coterie: Frye Blake, Abraham Reiss, and an addition of Derby Mallow, the muscular-framed Welsh corgi.  A little further down the street that settled in the coach, was the gang's third in command, the Frenchman Caracal Crawley, as well as Simeon Machlich, both of them accompanying Mortiz inside of the carriage. All men were equipped with a flintlock pistol tucked under their shirts and pants, with Frye having his usual set of daggers, and Abraham having his kukri knife. 

Whatever soul was in Mortiz's body was dead, and Simeon could see that the boy's hope had fleeted. 

Machlich's conscience held heavy with guilt. He didn't know why Wojtek would pick him, out of all the adept buckies that both of them knew, to sit by the person who is about to get slain. 

“I'm sorry." The goat started, looking down at his own lap. “I wish the captain would give his heart to think of something better."

Mortiz did not seem to answer. He did not know how to answer. This made Simeon let out an nerving sigh, before he slipped his hand to the collared opening of his ruffled jabot shirt, pinching a string around his neck. 

“You only did what you had to do. It's a true shame that it was from the wrong person. But..-"   Simeon withdrew a necklace out and over his head, and held it to Vincent.

The wolf's eyes met a cross, with a slanted line streaking down the bottom of the cross. He also felt his constricted arms being pulled towards the goat, as the goat slid the small necklace into his closed palms. 

“Stop. Don't give him hope, Machlich." Lucifer whispered, facing out the window. The goat wanted to interject, but he sloped back to his seat. 

The group was silent, as their angst for potential apprehensions by the law felt unresting. Frye, on the other hand, had scanned the place. While Blake was walking in front of the coach, his eyes caught a glimpse of a few silhouettes which peered from the roofs. He let out a soft gasp, he turned his head around to only realize that it disappeared. 

Frye began to gather angst. Aside from the Wolfhounds, he felt like there were more pairs of eyes watching over them. 

'It would have been better if they all found a place by the ocean… There wouldn't be so much… Buildings.' The wolf thought, before Abraham Freiss broke his line of focus by nudging his arms. 

“A little bird told me you beat the livin' hell out of our bounty to the point where he went coo-coo?" The hamster whispered, still walking. 

“...The… coo-coo part came after Captain told 'em his fate." Frye whispered back, his eyes now focused onto Freiss once more. “You must have had a hell of a night, reading your ten boyfriends a bedtime story of how a scrawny little kid outsmarted you. Couldn't your ego sponge all that muck?" 

“Very funny." Abraham concluded. 

“Say… Why's this place called the 'Sunless Slumps?' It ain't even a slump, it shoulda remained as Bexley." Derby began to contribute to the conversation, out of boredom. 

“Colt showed me a few of the paper's." Frye answered, his eyes still fixed at Wojtek's back. “1745. England was neck-on-neck with the Kingdom of Spain, and they were producin' Cog Mortars which fired 5 shells within 2 seconds. England wanted to find a way to re-launch more prototypes towards France, but they feared that they would encounter the Spanish military and get pushed back by their forces. So… Instead of taking a risk, they evacuated everyone from the borough and launched their English mortars here."

“Did the mortars work?" Derby asked, making both Abraham and Frye roll his eyes from the corgi's incompetency.

“No. The mortars clearly didn't work, and didn't destroy every corner of the borough. We are walkin' through a nice, clean street, and what we see now is an illusion." Frye replied, his sarcastic tone as obnoxious as it could get. 

“Alright. Fair enough, asshole." The corgi muttered under his breath, before looking down at the floor during their march, 

Finally, after trudging along the muck, Wojtek finally caught sight of a central square. Four lamps sloped down parallelly from each other, and they all were inches away equidistantly. It took a second for the lynx to realize that they were at their destination. 

"Tis' the place. Keep the cargo safe and don't bring him out until I tell ya' to." Wojtek turned his head back to his mates. 

The feline slid his hand into the pocket, pulling out a sling with an oiled up piece of cloth in it. Letting a hushed click of an aging tinderbox, he set the fabric ablaze. Letting it fly free above one of the decaying rooftops, he had successfully motioned the first invitations of their exchange.

The sound of the flames reverberated throughout the hollow rows of buildings, followed by a few series of slow revving noise which came from their parallel direction. 

All members held their beloved weapons beneath their palms, until their eyes met a carriage of elegant design which drove forth, one that was designed for the victory parades of the Crown back in the 1700's. 

Everyone, except for Wojtek, had silently marveled at the design. Especially for Frye, since he had seen automated coachlines throughout the city beforehand, but never had he seen such fine demure before. Automobiles were not much rampant, but he had seen them pass through the cities. However, the steam that hissed out of its exhaust sounded rich in resources, following in a suite of smoked coal following its trail. 

The horseless coach looked half the size of a train's car. With three vertical rows of two seats, it seemed like Herrington IV had prepared the worst-case scenario by accompanying the large carrier with more than just two people. Even if the car was in decent quality, however, the acceleration felt anemic. They were not built to carry masses of people, along with heavy stocks of weapons. Wojtek felt uncomfortable just imagining how tight the seats must have been during the ride to Gizmovale, all the way from Prestoria. 

The vehicle finally stopped beforehand, and Wojtek kept his hand by where he hid his flintlock. The door slowly swung open, with the car seeming to rattle as four soldiers slowly exited their seats. Armed with bayoneted muskets, their bodies were hardened with silver-plated armors. The grip of the four guard's rifles tightened upon seeing the Wolfhounds, especially as they laid eyes on the burly corgi. 

Both men positioned themselves behind the open door of the carriage, standing in a row behind the open door as they awaited for the exit of General Gareth Fein II and the Marquess of the Region of Prestoria, Joseph El-Bellegrade.

Stepping out of the wagon, Gareth locked eyes with Wojtek, his scowl as same as seeing a garbage can full of rotten carcasses mellowing with maggots. Common soldiers could only dismiss the cat as an unfamiliar felon, but the white bear only reduced him into a bastard. 'Strangle' was the only word he could express from his furrowed brows. 

Wojtek only responded with a blink. Wayton had mentioned General Fein II once: something about contributing to the annex of Scotland a few decades ago. The lynx didn't care of him in terms of royalty. All he ever was surprised of was seeing a man tread into his seventy's and still have a foundation of large muscles. 

Following suit was El-Bellegrade. His angst was masked by his confident march towards the group of Wolfhounds. 

Only Lucifer Crawley recognized the fox. The son of a traitor to both the Old Westmeister, and the fallen France. His kin were the reason why the Annex of France happened. 

"I am most grateful that you consented to choose such a desolate place as this." Joseph smiled, taking a bow while lifting two hems of his red peacoat.  "I am Josephillipë El-Bellegrade, son of Jean-Paul El-Bellegrade, the esteemed gentleman who co-signed the Declaration of Peace of 1790 with England, now known to us as the beautiful Old Westmeister." 

The fox lifted his head up, his hand extending towards the gang in a gesture of his interest. Wojtek could see his extended arm slightly quivering. "And you, Wojtek Zuev, if I am not mistaken? His Grace, the Grand Duke of Prestoria, His noble excellency, Herrington the Fourth, extends his heartfelt congratulations and graciously commends you for your deed." 

The captain couldn't help but smirk by the long uncalled for introduction which nobles were so used to. He tipped his patchy hat and followed with an almost mocking bow. "Wojtek Zuev, son of a hopeless drunkard, Stitcher blesses his soul." 

“Charming." The fox snapped his fingers, waving his arm towards Gareth to pull out the long-waited bounty reward that was in the car. The ursine reluctantly complied, and pulled out a hand-held bullion which was decorated with lavished crystals around the box. “I am most glad that you have agreed to a counter-offer. His excellency was aware of your… Antiques of selling the boy to someone else." 

The vulpine leaned to the side, looking at the cart behind Wojtek. “And for the god-forsaken wretch himself? Is he in your little wagon?" 

Zuev turned around, nodded at Blake, who nodded at Crawley through the window of the coach. Lucifer had pulled the Bounty out of the seat and onto the muddy concrete. Simeon also exited the car while he watched Vincent, who was roped around by the muzzle and hands, walk towards Frye. The fabric of his back was met with a cold, metal barrel of Blake's pistol, pressing the boy forward towards the men.

Joseph and Gareth could see that the mistreatment the lupine had to endure. However, they quickly dismissed it knowing that the lupine was still alive. El-Bellagrade's smile spilled from his neutral lips, but Gareth's eyes became darker upon seeing the treacherous Vincent stepping forward. 

Joseph stepped forward to scrutinize the boy. The fox held his chin, and turned him from left to right, and even lifted the side of Vincent's lip to examine his bloody teeth. “To think that you could slip away into the cracks of our cities." The fox sneered, before seeing Wojtek jerk the wolf away from Bellegrade's distance. 

“I'd like the payment first, thank ya' very much. We wouldn't want to be indecent now, would we? Unless you're fond of window shopping." The lynx pulled another grin, clearly scratching at the noble's ego. "Let your butler-bear there pull out the gold. I'm not considering anything lower than eighteen Karat. Even we have standards."

"Fair enough." Joseph rolled his eyes, unamused by Wojtek's undiplomacy. “But mind this, hoodlum, be aware, that one false move, and I have my men send you and your… Little pity party to your makers." 

El-Bellegrade took the box off of Gareth's hands, slowly opening the case. The vulpine revealed it before the gang's eyes: Four of twenty-four-karats which shone like a star amongst the dark skies. 

The bars were not thick, but Wojtek could see that Joseph was clearly trying to resist the weight of all four bars. 

"-...And, for its worth."
In the pocket of Belegrade's coat remained a horseshoe magnet. Pressing the tip of the bar against the shiny surface revealed that the gold did not stick to the ends, proving its legitimacy.

Wojtek and Joseph were both lost in their own trades; they were unable to notice something that was happening in the background. 

Frye saw it.

They both saw a sudden glimpse between General Fein II and one of the soldiers, following a very subtle, unnoticeable nod. From the glimmer of Fein's yellow eyes, Blake only regretted that he didn't follow his own intuition. 

Blake's flintlock was aimed at the General, but realized too late.
“WOJTEK!" 

Everything happened within a matter of a blink of an eye. Another flame had lit from the rooftops above the dead city once more, and all soldiers by the car, as well as Fein, positioned their weaponries, pointed towards the six pirates. As the flames wooshed through the empty street, eight more guardsmen emerged from the abandoned buildings, forming a semi-circle around the coach and the rest of the men.

Out of everyone within the Wolfhounds, Simeon was the only man to have his hands up. Machlich had noticed that, judging from the symbol of a red sword imprinted in their armguards, that the extra soldiers were from the Garrison of Bethenway, Gizmovale. 

Gareth, on the other hand, had his flintlock aimed towards El-Bellegrade's nape. Bayoneted rifles were facing old, mangled pistols. 

Wojtek could not pull his own weapon out in time, caught between the potential crossfire. However, he pulled Mortiz away in between, basically shielding the lupine from Gareth's line of sight. 

The Wolfhounds were surrounded.

"...What...- What in the name of GOD are you doing, Gareth?! What is the meaning of this?!" Joseph's eyes widened, upon seeing this sudden operation take place.

“Something in which I should have done. A long, long time ago." Gareth's eyes furrowed once more. "You and Herrington... Both of you... BOTH of you defiled what used to be the Welsh, or what is now your playful delusion called 'Prestoria.'" 

“To think you have such audacity!" El-Bellegrade growled, his hands up in the air. 

“I do this for the people, you degenerate! The same people that all of you left for dead when everything began! To even entertain the idea of letting justice run in the hands of TRAITORS makes both of you, and Herrington, perfidious creatures... And your actions seek more treachery than the criminal himself!"

"Does your barrel know of the adversary it confronts?! Did you forget that I am the Grand-Marquess of the Prestorian County!? Should you even entertain the notion of betraying me or the Duke, you will find yourself facing the sword by the King himself!" Joseph screamed back, his hands and arms beginning to dampen from sweat despite the cold weather. 

"And you are talking to the sole man, who could align the Garrisons of both Prestoria and Gizmovale, back to the original orders of England! MY MEN did not die in Kircaldy to see their superiors become those we slain! My men want JUSTICE! And what of our sacrifices, when we let the same people who we detest, with the bottom of our hearts, control the true meaning of it?"

One of his free, grizzly hands pointed towards Wojtek Zuev. 

"To think that this duty is YOUR burden, it puts the sacrifice of my brothers in vain. This gold goes to the people, and not to the bottom-feeders which causes nothing but ridicule amongst neighbors outside of the Old Westmeister. The same nations who we conquered! All of you, and the filth that you call the Wolfhound... I will find all of you, and wipe you out myself, and every god-ridden person on the Shilling's Board!"

“Holy fuckin' shit, I knew it… I knew it!" Lucifer growled, one hand on his mace while the other against the trigger. 

“Not a fuckin' prick on that bayonette, fuckwat! I've got bullets for days!" Abraham growled out, legs and back arched in a position swiftly moved. 

The lynx's shoulders tensed up from Gareth's threat. There was barely any time to think about any conscient decisions. Especially as he knew one of his members was going to perish, he had his palms open below his hips, enough he could quickly pull his pistol out, without drawing too much movement. One hand slowly rose up, gesturing to his team to calm themselves. He could feel his abdomen and torso tense up and down, along with the pounding of his heartbeat which came along with it. 

"Come…- Come on, now…- Ya' think the Duke will let it slide, Garth? Let's…- Let's…- Not make rash and stupid choices 'ere." Wojtek knew too well that words would not influence any alternative measures. However, he aimed to stall the time in order to think. 

There were too many to take down even with a well-placed volley from the crew. His head tilting towards a dangling pair of lanterns from the coach reminded him of what Mortiz had done during their encounters. 

All Wojtek needed to do was fissure them into an explosion. One on its own incapacitated and blinded Frye and Abraham beforehand; who knew what at least three of them could do. The blast would give them time to retreat and reposition. 

Zuev's finger twitched, anticipatedly. “Look… I…- I get it… I messed up while I was…- I was on duty. But me mum needed more nurturing… What did ya' expect? The Ol' West to not starve without a sun? Just… Let my people go… And you can have me instead." 

Frye's fingers were basically squeezing against the trigger, until he looked back up a roof to a building closest to the group. He saw a hooded figure leaning against the balcony, who seemed to be unfazed from the deathly stares of musketeers below. 

Mortiz also picked up on what Blake was staring at, and realized the same. 

Both lupines watched as the cloaked figure started to unravel his hood: It was a young hyena, who looked shy of eighteen just like Blake himself, and presented himself as a common street vagrant. 

While the General was busy playing yet another game, he would not notice it would be his last. 

"Praise the Oldest Son. Glory to the Primogenitor. Remember me, my brothers."
The hyena whispered to himself, eyes closed in prayer. He finally stripped down his cloak, revealing nothing from the bottom up, all except for a metal harness on his chest, as well as a few fragmented balls wrapped around his hips, accompanied with a belt. 

His gaunt face remains to express a demented smile. It seemed like the jackal savored the feeling of living, as every inch of his skin appreciated the cold, bristling wind, with small drops of rain soaking into the fur for one last time. 

A storm was coming, and he would be its herald. 

His Chosen One. 

His finger pinched the tinderbox and lit it towards his harness, which had a few fuses sticking out on its ends. The terrorist stood tall, his vest aflame and ticking. 

Frye and Mortiz both watched in horror, as he watched the hyena do the unthinkable. 

"REPENT THY SINS! FOR OBJURGATION!" 

The figure hopped across the ledge, freefalling down seemingly towards the group. His arms stretched up, a leap of faith to join his creator. The time slowed down for those on the ground, and all eyes locked on the man falling from the rooftops, and the bright light on the fuse disappeared, and the young man started to illuminate behind Gareth Fein II, and the four musketeers. 

"DIE, HERETIC!" 

Even if it was too late for any actions to prevent further damage, Wojtek turned around, his arms fully clutching onto Mortiz as both of them embraced for impact. 

An ear-rending bang ripped through the stagnant air. The falling stranger exploded into a cloud of gore and shrapnel right above Gareth's head. Hundreds of pellets ripping the car into shreds, splitting the wood, muscle and bone apart around them. 

All guardsmen across from Wojtek had dropped to the ground, their bodies turned into an unimaginable mesh of convoluted carnage: broken, twisted chunks of flesh and fur spewed throughout the crowd, organs jetting forth and soaking up the mud along the way. 

A massive shock wave broke down the glass from the buildings surrounding them, which knocked Wojtek, Mortiz and the others onto the ground. 

Bexley had become, once again, a borough of chaos. 

To Be Continued.