Frye Blake had a distaste for Prestoria. 

Assigned to be partisaned with Wojtek and his right-hand hamster, Abraham Freiss, to find and capture Mortiz Vincent, the young wolf knew that his captain would ask him due to his wicked perception. Revisiting this place was displeasuring for him. Many moons of living in Prestoria accumulated several nightmares: the air, the aura, and the people played a fiddle to his tribulation. 

As Abraham and Wojtek were assigned to go into every cornerstone of Prestoria and use his charisma to squeeze some information from local citizens, Blake was tasked onto surveilling the Omen Streets for some potential anomalies.

This was the wolf's first time being involved in a bounty hunt. Captain Dice recognized Frye's remarkable precision: the wolf's slender and wiry figure compensated for his intellect, and his youth of eighteen made up for his agility and quick-minded decisions on the streets. Wojtek knew that Frye came from the depths of the cesspool that was Prestoria, and valued the insight of the streets.

'It's important that we keep him alive. But if someone gets to him first, then try to take what's remainin' of him.'

This was something that Wojtek had specifically requested between the two subordinates before they dispersed to their locations. It is better that the Wolfhounds would sell the lupine to larger syndicates while he was in his own sentience, rather than deal with hauling a carcasse. 

However, Frye did not understand the reasoning behind selling criminals to other criminals: At least those who served in the law have no choice but to stand by their deals. But other buckies? Other scoundrels? Who in their right mind, within the large mass of criminals, are marking the bounties for every criminal in the Old Westmeister? How does Wojtek know who to trust?

Frye slipped into an alleyway adjacent to the narrow street of Omen. Despite the complicated twists and turns of the paths, Blake knew the roads better than those who lived here before Wales were renamed into 'Prestoria.' Between a rustic apartment and an abandoned Shakespearen theater lay pipes which stretched up to a wall, and all the way up to the roof of the complex. 

Cloaking himself with his thin robe, Blake began to climb up.

The wolf's hands moved deftly against the pipes, each digit of his fingers mimicked the same delicacy and feeling from when he climbed up the rooftop when he was a mere cub. Each graceful grapple was a memorable path etched into his muscles. 

Upon reaching the rooftop, Frye analyzed his surroundings. As he intended to track the bounty with a bird's view, the sight was absolutely perfect, which was a word Frye didn't expect himself to use in this city. 

The wolf reached down to his belt and onto a small scrip bag. From its small pouch compartment, the lupine withdrew a metallic cylinder. Within a swift motion, he pulled a metal strip which was attached to the front end, which extended the cylinder to a monocular.

The device made a hissing noise as a response to its elongation, ready to be used. 

Frye pulled out a piece of crumpled paper, a printed sheet which was made by Herrington IV's henchmen, of a stunningly detailed portrait of Mortiz Vincent. 

MORTIZ VINCENT - TREASON. 

Revealing a photo captured by an III G.N Lens Portable Camera, a device used exclusively by the highest of gumshoes to effortlessly capture moving images, the picture was printed on paper, rendering the intricate contours of Mortiz's facial features, hair, and most importantly, his velvet eyes. Blake needed to use the image as a reference to spot him out from the crowd.

Raising the monocular to his left eye, the brass frame around the rims of the lens ticked, extending its frame a little further towards the crowd of people walking by. On the right hand of the monocular, lay an attached cog in which Frye's hand gently turned, making the frame suddenly switch a gray tint, painting the lens into a monochromatic canvas. The left hand of the monocular laid another set of brass cogs which he turned to attach a hue sensor, filtering into all spectrums of red. 

Had he not been so focused on finding a pair of red eyes in the sea of gray figures, he would be congratulating himself over seizing this technology off of a noble priest of the Children of the Clockwork God- a publicly proclaimed cult in which is known to 'bless' the tech for peak efficiency.

His focus would endure for five minutes, with no luck. 

Another five would pass, as he could see from the gargantuan steam clock from the side of Gizmovale. 

Frye's gaze momentarily shifted to a young vulpine cub, being chased by an older sister vixen within the rows of people walking by. Despite having to not hear their conversation from afar, it was evident that the sister scolded the younger one for darting off too quickly after catching up with the cub, who protested loudly as a response. Ultimately, Blake witnessed a playful reprimand between the two, sharing a little laugh before continuing. 

'Lucky little bugger.' Frye had mused to himself, his monocular fixating on the pair of siblings passing by. The wholesome exchange made his heart burdened with the evoked, nostalgic memory of him and his past older sister. 

As much as being in the Wolfhound was the way fate shaped him into surviving, Blake helplessly missed the young life he had before this inevitable path. In his mind's eye, the two foxes were replaced with him and his sister, chasing each other through the streets despite having to be born in a sunless world. 

BOOM!

However, his imaginations would soon snap, as a loud bang echoed throughout the streets.

Frye's monocular traveled towards the direction of the sound. The gray ocean of men and women started to become a frantic wave. 

Upon the direction, Frye had found the infamous, red wolfen eyes. 

Blake's eyes caught the man responsible for the murder of the son of Duke Herrington, who was frantically sprinting towards the crowd of people, evading muskets coming from a coterie of six bedraggled canines following him behind. 

Frye's eyes dilated, watching in horror as the idiot wolf would usurp himself into the crowd. 

He knew that the syndicate chasing after Mortiz wouldn't hesitate to open fire into the innocent crowd, even if there were children or not. As his monocular detected red blotches of blood on the floor through the gray frame, Blake knew this had become a larger ordeal than he had anticipated.

Anyone's first instance would be to watch, or secure themselves from being compromised in a barrage fire. However, his monocles would focus towards the two vulpine siblings running in the same direction of the crowd, in which Mortiz seemed to sprint towards. 

Despite having priority on surveilling the direction in which Mortiz was heading, the young Pocketeer could not, in his conscience, just watch this unfold. 

Frye dropped his monocular onto the ground, making the lens shatter as he ran into the scene of conflict. He did not want the young fox to lose kin due to the greed of powerful men; it was a pattern he had found when his own sister met her demise years ago.

____

Fifteen minutes had passed by. Flintlocks were drawn, and six men laid defunct on the floor. 

Their bodies, deduced into a mess full of bits and blood, twitched on the ground on its last chance for requiem, before laying limp as they drew their final breaths. 

The ringleader of the group, a hyena, gazed at his fellow mates. Kneeling on the floor, he watched as the same men with whom he had traversed the vast expanse of the Old Westmeister meet their violent demises. Though he knew death was imminent and inevitable, the sight of his lifeless friends strewn across the ground ignited a fury within him.

Tears ran down through the hyena's cheeks, savoring his breaths while his adventure stopped here. 

“We.. Could have.. Stroken a..- A fucking deal..." 

That was the last of his whisper, before his head was none but a red mist of blood. Wojtek had swung his steel anchor into his opponent's head.

Due to his reckless dive into the crowd, Frye had sustained some injuries despite being successful in neutralizing the threat of the Omen Street. His throat was lightly grazed by a karambit of one of the gangs, and his chest remained bruised from a powerful kick. 

The only pain which stung the most, however, was knowing that he had lost the sight of Mortiz due to his distraction. The only clue that was left in his eyes was the fact that a priest had carried the unconscious wolf over his back. 

Wojtek had pulled out the pointed edge of his grapnel out of the ringleader's skull, flicking the blood and fragments of the bandit's brains out of the bladed tips. Abraham did so to his kukri knife as well, before crouching down and looting the corpses of any extra coins. 

It seemed like the two had heard the gunshots and the ensuing commotion, and knew it would be related to Mortiz. However, after seeing Frye fighting all six of these buckies alone, it was clear that the two needed to swiftly end the chaos of this desperate bounty hunt. 

“Frye." The lynx wrapped his anchor around his belt. Both Abraham and Wojtek's eyes seemed to focus on the young wolf, who seemed to stare at the distance. “..Are ye' okay? What in the bloody fuck happened?" 

“I'm sorry. I don't know what..- What got over me. I saw him! Being chased by these goddamn roadmen while their guns were a'blazing. The fucking idiot thinks killing a fucking lord would'nt be enough, and now he's running into crowds with wives and children, thinking they'd be slabs of SHIELDS!" 

The wolf, out of anger, gave the leader's corpse a distressed and frustrated kick.

“I'm going to BEAT him to a fucking PULP when I see him! It'll be fifteen boxes to his sorry little face for every person he's indirectly shot right on the streets when I capture his sorry ass!" 

“...So about.. Three people. What's… Er… Three by fifteen?" Abraham, unphased by Frye's little outburst, looked ahead at the casualties that were excluding the pirates they had just killed. 

“Don't use your brain. Just think that it's a lot of hits, Friess." Wojtek replied, waving at his hamster companion dismissively before focusing on his lupine subordinate. “Right. Where has this Vincent-boy gone? Ye' saw him for a quick movement.. Right?"

Frye looked down at the bloodstained cobblestones. “I saw him slump into an alleyway: between the abandoned Fern Pottery Exhibit and the Celtic Treasure Store. I couldn't just grab him and run. I don't think I'm strong enough to lift him up from there, considering everything going on."

Before they could draw further attention from the crowd, the three began to proceed towards the streets. Frye led the way, heading toward the direction where he had last seen Mortiz slump into an alleyway. 

“I was about to get him. But.. Some fuckin' priest carried him away. Brown robe.. Golden ropes. He had his hood on. Though, I could tell by the way he walks." 

Wojtek could see that Frye was ashamed of his inadequacies. Though anyone had a solution, the lynx was not one to hold grudges. No one was perfect. 

However, as they stopped by the alleyway, one clue aroused the gang's diminishing confidence: on the ground lay a wooden, Extoric crucifix. Picking up the two infused crosses, Abraham eyed it for a few seconds, before turning to his comrades. 

“Ey." Abraham piped up, bestowing the cross to both Frye and Wojtek. “I think there's something we can trotter off of. I think I can sniff 'em out."

“What?" Frye's brows raised, taking the cross and viewing it for himself. “How do we know that for sure?" 

"I was askin' up and about, and one of the blokes said somethin' about a vicar looking after the meek to get 'em in his little.. Exodus freak show. I hear he got kicked out of the church recently." Abraham replied, his voice booming with confidence. 

“I doubt no Christians, no Catholics, no Anglicans, nor the Clockwork Children would ever give a bastard like him a roof. None but these pathetic lil' fellas. We're lucky this is Prestoria. There's only one noted priest 'ere who's ever turned."

"You never made me regret inviting you on this search." Wojtek let out a laugh, exiting out of the  entrance of the alleyway. 

“Come on. We got more to do. Just need to put ourselves a little bit more of a push."

_____

After nearly an entire night of rumors, shared drinks, bribes, and a few broken faces, the Wolfhounds finally caught a trail. They discovered that Father Ester Helm was the key to finding this bounty once and for all. The exhaustive preparations and dead ends had frayed the crew's nerves, making the upcoming interrogation more urgent than casual.

Where a single lamplight shone down from the impoverished streets, blood slowly pooled in an empty corner of the Circle of Solis, where Abraham delivered another kick to Helm's muzzle. 

“Enough, Abraham. For now." 

The lynx paused, leaning over with a huff as he blew out his cigarette, its smog content blowing towards the bloody pulp of Father Helm's face.

"Do you now know what we're talkin' about? Blake over there saw your sorry fuckin' ass hauling that little shit during that wreck. This is where I ask you again, for the final time." Wojtek's grin masked a sinister leer, his fangs bared as he slanted towards the defenseless pastor. 

“Where. Is. Mortiz?" 

“P-...Please…- I-.. I don't know what you're talking about!" 

To emphasize Zuev's point, the hamster twisted up the stranger's arm until his elbow creaked, followed by a hushed thump. Helm's blood-curdling scream would soon follow, until Wojtek would thrust another boot onto the priest's leg.

“I told ya'. That doesn't work on me. Anymore." 

Wojtek tossed the Extoric cross towards the knelting priest, making him gloss over his crucial mistake which would lead him to become a bloody pulp. 

"You wanna rethink what you said?"

“...No.. I can't…" Tears ran down Helm's face. 

“If I fold into your greed.. Then I would die not a martyr. You… Have to give him… One chance. A chance for him to… To find salvation! He is a troubled boy! I…- I don't care if you kill me. I would rather sacrifice my life to defend Mortiz to the path of salvation! I refuse to fold into your demands. So do it. End me, if it appeases the little free-will that you have in your damning, BASTARDLY, soul." 

"A martyr? Oh, you think we're going to kill you first?" 

The captain froze, his lone eye fixated on the bloody face of Ester. Crouching down before the heaving, holy man, the lynx grabbed a flock of the pastor's hair to force his eyes up to his own. 

“Killing you isn't enough of a threat around here, mate. Oh no-no. We're going to break all bones in yer' body. Let you crawl free like a roundworm. Your sullied face dragging through the piss-soaked filth as you shit out the shattered teeth you swallowed… And then…" 

The lynx moved a little close. Until his snout almost touched the pastor's forehead. 

"And then I'm going to give your little house a visit. It's that one Extoric Chapel beside the Omen's Street? The one by the very corner... Right? What if I exile your worshippers from living? Let them scream your name in agony while I have my men pull open their rib cages slowly in front of you? Maybe it won't just be your die-hard followers. Maybe that's the start. Maybe it'll be your mother. Father. Aunts. Nieces. Nephews. Cousins." A little chuckle escaped the lynx. 

“I may be a criminal, but I am one with class. I'll give you a shred of dignity and leave my paws clean, if you forfeit. If not, then… Shame if anything will happen to them."

“If you're going to capture me, then do it without hurting him." 

As a voice boomed out behind him, Wojtek, Frye, and Abraham had diverted their attention towards the sound. All eyes dilated towards the figure that stood behind them.

With one quick motion, the cloaked figure that was Mortiz Vincent threw a rock towards the direction of the four men, aiming upwards at the three bulbs of a single lamplight which glimmered throughout the night. 

The pebble struck its mark with precision, eliciting a sudden burst of gas and flames that erupted from all the bulbs.. In the ensuing explosion, shattered glass flew in all directions, raining down on Ester, Frye, Abraham, and Wojtek. The air filled with a pungent gas odor, accompanied by a thick smog that obscured their vision. 

The putrid odor of the gas leakage was enough that their eyes watered, and the thick smog which spewed from the unblazed and combusted lamps made it more difficult for them to see. Wojtek regretted having to be bare on his chest, as some glass fragments sharded his fur, adding onto the previous wounds of his torso. 

As the smog dissipated, Wojtek had noticed that the bloody mess of a priest had disappeared, with Mortiz having to carry Father Helm on his back while he began to make his way to the Gulch Street. 

Compared to the bustling Omen, the Gulch remained to be a far less crowded scene, as there remains to be a lack of abundance of establishments all around. However, while Prestoria was celebrated for its intricate and organized network of trolley wires and their coach systems, the Gulch was known as a hub of transportation.

The lack of people made Vincent a lot more relieved, given that the consequence of running once more would reduce the casualties to potentially himself. 

With fortune, Mortiz's eyes glimpsed at a large auto-transport coach, ferrying a few peasants. This specific mobility had no coachman, but rather moved on its own along with a trolley wire, its wheels supported by thin rails embedded in the ground. In the 1700's, it was used to promote tourism for foreigners traveling across the seas so they could gander at Wales. However, it was now a living artifact of the past in which peasants used to transport themselves throughout Prestoria. 

Returning the priest to his house would be a dangerous idea; Wojtek was well aware of his residency, and it would be much safer for the pastor to mosey on home after Mortiz would be captured or killed. 

Vincent's breath was barely audible, his composure barely in-tact while he dragged the priest into the moving coach. Ignoring the confused passengers, he placed Helm onto a seat. Detaching his red robe, the lupine placed it over the priest's body.

“Stop… What are you doing?" Father Helm whispered, his stammers and breath audibly hitching. 

“Shut up." Mortiz pressed his palm against the vulpine's mouth. 

“You move from this seat and follow me to the end of the horizon, I will wait by the entrance of hell to kill you again." He threatened, barely audible in order to draw attention. As he quickly turned around to exit the automotive carriage, he was stopped by Helm. 

“D…-Did you lose your mind? You have to remain inside here lest you want to get KILLED!" Helm exclaimed, grabbing tightly against Mortiz's arm using his own non-broken arm. 

Mortiz did not reply. 

Quite frankly, he did not know how to respond without giving away the fact that this may be end of the canine's own line. Vincent couldn't stay with the priest, especially given how brutally the pastor had been beaten because he was hiding around in Old Westmeister.

It was his fault Ester was caught in this mess that was the lupine's life. He was tired of running, as it was the reason why good people were hurting. It was a curse, even before the bounty was set on his head. It was the reason why he lost his family, and it was up to him to stop this cycle with Father Helm. 

With how Old Westmeister was centered around taking the power off of people through the means of destruction, Mortiz realized that the only way he would pay reparations to his damage is to not forfeit himself, and not other people.

“Goodbye, Helm." 

With one yank, Mortiz jerked his arm away from Helm's grasp, before getting off the coach through the open window of the side. 

“NO! MORTIZ!" 

The lupine watched as the coachbus continued its course out of the Gulch, waiting for his inevitable fate to come. 

There was no more running. Not anymore.

Mortiz anxiously waited for the trio to catch up to him, but only saw Wojtek run towards him. It appeared that the feline was mildly bleeding from his chest due to the impact of shattered glass, but it was nothing to deter him from doing his usual biddings. Frye and Abraham both split up in order to find Mortiz if he had alternatively ran towards the Omen Street or into an establishment in the Solis. 

Zuev pulled out his flintlock pistol, aiming it at Mortiz's head. 

“Freeze. Hands in the air." 

Both Zuev and Vincent traded a glare. 

During their silent clash of eyesights, the lupine could see that Wojtek's eyes only dilated with relishing excitement. Never in his privateering life, he would have such a thrill hunting a lesser being. Perhaps it was luck that Mortiz had cleverly utilized the environment to get himself out of corner-cutting situations. However, Zuev respected Vincent's reckless courage. 

Despite seeing his detailed face on countless bounty boards, Wojtek's hands trembled with anticipation upon seeing the lupine in flesh. 

And despite the countless run-ins from various privateers, Mortiz had never been this terrified as he was now as he was facing Wojtek. 

“Don't make this difficult on me, kid." The feline jeered. 

"I…- I don't see a reason for me to do so, I'm afraid."  The wolf practically gripped his toes against the soles of his shoes while he stood in the middle of the streets. His mask of confidence dripped with fear, something that Wojtek could clearly see. 

"Even if I don't comply with your demands, you won't shoot me straight in the head because the Duke wouldn't recognize me from a different wolf, making your search for me obsolete. It is not like you are going to sell my corpse to the other privies like a pig. Because if I remember from the wankers who's tried to sell me out in the Shilling's Board," 

Mortiz had slowly brandished a dagger between his palms. 

"...A dead bounty is no good for its gold.. But it's only good for its fame. And for someone like you, the fame of killing me doesn't appease you, but you would rather have the pleasure of selling me off to some larger fish in the sea for the gold bar, no?" 

The lynx shared an indifferent expression, nodding to Mortiz's questions but remaining aloof. Responding with a lowly chuckle, Zuev holstered his flintlock pistol, granting the wolf the satisfaction of being entertained by his own theory. 

"Truth is, Vinney-boy, I don't need my shooter to put you right onto the deck." 

Wojtek took a rushed step towards the canine, his hands slipping into his coat pocket while he delivered his footwork. A swift motion of Wojtek's white paw followed a thick arc of fragmented glass which flew towards the lupine's face. 

When the shattered glass was thrown in, Mortiz had only a few seconds to evade the blow, darting his legs backwards behind him. As much as he tried to evade the momentum of the lynx's fragments going into his eyes and nose, it was only a distraction so Wojtek could land a blow against his stomach, and then his face, aiming for his left cheek. 

Mortiz grunted, the punch to the stomach was almost enough to knock the wind out of him. Barely positioning his footing against the floor while he composed himself, he tried to recover from the stunning hits by Captain Dice. 

“...I could earn what I can get, with or without cuttin' a few corners. Be lucky I didn't shoot ya' dead." 

“Shit…!" The lupine whispered, realizing some of the glass shards met its impact that grazed his face. 

Despite the impact from Wojtek, the lupine remained undeterred, a fierce glint in his eyes as he prepared a swift counterattack. Strapped to his belt was a small sheath which holstered Mortiz's dagger—the very weapon that bled the Duke's son. With a growl, the lupine lunged forward, ready for a second round of rejuvenation.

Holding the sharpened object by the bladed end rather than its handle, the lupine quickly hurled the blade with all his strength with an aggressive grunt following in suit, sending the dagger flying towards Wojtek. 

The feline moved his elbow up abruptly, letting the loose folds of his heavy jacket get in the way of the incoming strike. Had Mortiz been a lot more precise, the dagger's velocity was enough to stab deep into Zuev's forehead. However, the reckless throw that the fugitive made only grazed his right cheek. 

Wojtek, without care or hesitation, swifted his legs towards Vincent once more. Unphased by the small wound on his cheek, the feline was quick to deliver a series of powerful blows towards Vincent: One to the leg, another to the forehead, a third towards his torso, and then, a final clobber right into his temple. 

The canine was ambushed by his own underestimation to the natural strength of the lynx. His vision blurred, and the lynx could see that the lupine was staggering to the left and then to the right. Despite feeling a lot more weak to the blows, however, he found his consciousness glimmering with the last bit of his fighting spirit. 

“I'll give it to you. It's clever of you to stand and fight instead of legging it. A half-assed dafty would just run the other way." 

“You think I'm done?" The lupine barked back, arching his fists back into a curled position. 

“There's no where, no way to run, boy. Count. Yer. Minutes." Wojtek cockily replied. Unhooking his anchor from his belt, the lynx began to ground himself to make his final pursuit.

Mortiz watched in awe as the boat anchor in Wojtek's paws began to spin slowly above his head. The canine saw the metal anchor transform and disappear into a swirling gray vortex. The strength and speed of the constant swinging had accelerated beyond recognition, creating an unpredictable, deadly circle: each rotation being a harbinger of chaos and destruction.

The sound of metal whooshing through the air escalated into a high-pitched woosh. Air rushed throughout the radius of the lynx's deadly swing, their fur billowing in the fierce gusts generated by the spinning anchor.

His plan of counteracting against Wojtek became limited. However, seeing that the anchor would only land against Mortiz if he was far enough that the serrated blades, the lupine decided to do one thing he had never done before: to run towards the direction of danger. 

He was safer being inches close to the feline, as he started to make his sprint towards Wojtek.

At full speed, Zuev finally lunged the anchor by its chain, narrowly missing Mortiz by a single strand of fur. As the lupine finally closed in, Wojtek had to step back in order to redirect the anchored end to properly hit the quick target. However, his accuracy drastically diminished as Mortiz inched closer and closer towards the lynx.

With one final motion, Wojtek had finally caught Mortiz at the tip of his tongue. Instead of aiming his anchor towards him, he instead thrusted his arm towards the right in order to curve the chain towards the canine's leg. 

The feline watched as the velocity of his own pull was enough to coil his chains against Mortiz's right leg. Pulling the rope back, the confines of the chain's linen tightened into a much more, defined snare against the wolf's leg. 

The anchored tips found their mark, tightly piercing into Mortiz's soft calf against his leg. 

Hearing the wolf's cry wasn't enough for the lynx, however.

As Vincent staggered onto his knees, Wojtek wanted to earn his victory with a dirty technique. His left boot rose up, a heavy buckled toe flying right into the wolf's crotch to further incapacitate the lupine. The ruthless slam of the feline’s boot caused him to let out a hoarse gasp, the canine’s breath knocked out of his lungs as the pain against his jewels vividly throbbed. 

Wojtek lunged his foot once more between Mortiz's legs, depriving him a breath through another cry of agony. The relentless assault continued as boot after boot landed, each one driving Mortiz deeper into a state of excruciating pain and helplessness.

Finally defeated, the wolf writhed on the ground, cupping his private area while letting out some more despaired, hitching gasps. It was better if he perished than live enough to sustain through this experience. This humiliating pain was enough the constant gasp for air finally substantiated into ghastly wails. 

The lynx placed his boot onto the lupine's back, pressing him into the ground with all his heavy weight. Savoring the sound of wails of pain coming from beneath, the lynx remained to constrain the wolf with his anchor. 

As Zuev found their comrades idly standing by and watching the two men's horseplay, the lynx gave his comrades a gesturing tilt to the head. 

The restriction of Mortiz's leg would soon travel all the way up to his arms, as Wojtek would eventually force both of the wolf's hands against his back, the cold, metallic feeling of the lynx's anchoring chains would travel up to his hands. 

With one more attempt of a struggle, Mortiz realized that he was finally captured, and even the little intrusive thought of escaping was nullified. 

"Stay. Calm down. Don't force my hand. I'll say this only once. Ye' have one chance, and one chance only." 

"...Eat... Sh-...Shit..." 

As both Frye and Abraham approached the two, Wojtek wavered his hand towards the hamster upon realizing that Mortiz was not going to comply even after brute force. “Give me that thing. The Yeltsin Flask." 

“You got it." Friess reached under his coat, pulling out a glass canteen smelling of pure filthy mushroom liquor. As the production of yeasts were a rare commodity due to the lack of sunlight, people found an alternate, almost hallucinogenic-like liquid substance which used distilled specific fungus. 

As Wojtek pinned Mortiz down onto the cobblestone, his finger reached for Mortiz's jaw, pulling his teeth down enough that the mouthpiece of the flask would fit him. As the cork popped, the feline shoved the bottleneck into the wolf's mouth, forcing the distasteful liquid in. 

It took Wojtek a few tries for him to forcefully waterlog the wolf with the fine booze, enough that Mortiz's vision would double in quantity. His mind swirled, as the unfamiliar Yeltsin drink began to take into its effect rather quickly, due to his lightweight figure. 

His vision blurred as he gazed at the two other Wolfhounds approaching him, and eventually found himself slowly, but surely, falling into unconsciousness. The pain from his crotch, the blood from his leg, and the booze, all being the final crescendo to Mortiz' defeat. 

With extra measure, Wojtek had bashed the flask over Vincent's head. 

“It's.. Finally done." Frye watched as Mortiz sunk his head onto the ground.

The lynx stood up from the wolf's unconscious body, dusting off the remaining shattered glass fragments off of his peacoat. Buttoning up his dress shirt despite the blood and grime on his chest, he started to walk towards the direction of the Circle of Solis once more. Their next destination was back to Gizmovale. 

"I got to say: even for a cornered rat, he put up a decent fight, even if I could have just shot him in the arm."

“And why did you not?" 

Wojtek did not seem to peep a response, it was clear that his intentions remained to be conflicted. As his ultimate goal was to sell Mortiz off, the smaller part of his conscience urged another plan. 

Frye looked at his privateer mate, Abraham, for an answer, only to be responded with a small shrug before they both began to follow behind Wojtek. As the chains remained to bind the unconscious body of Mortiz Vincent, the three decided to carry his body towards the coach they had came from.