“Clear the fuckin' streets if ye value yer life!"

“He's as worth a king's coin in the Board! Take the bastard head of his!" 

Gunshots echoed throughout the dark skies of Prestoria. 

Swashbucklers, buccaneers, and ravenous freebooters, all men of unkempt leather, opened fire throughout the public streets of Omen. Sounds of flint pistols and muskets shooting filled the air in a cacophonous array, but the arrangement of bullets only had a single name on it: Mortiz Vincent. 

Wolves are a common sight in the Old Westmeister, yet a few only ever inherit eyes as red as Vincent's. Even in the dead of night, the lupine's eyes always illuminated through even the thickest fogs, making it easy for him to identify. 

To lower his fatality, Mortiz pushed his way through a bundled crowd of people browsing through the vendors which crowded the sidewalk.  He wore a hooded cape to mask himself from being easily identified, trying to camouflage himself out of the view of the criminals. It was better that the lupine would blend into the crowd of people, for his attire was just as poorer as the next commoner in the city. Throughout the thin rows of marketeers barricading the sidewalks, the young wolf pushed through the seas of unkemptly-dressed men and women in order to give himself a buffer between him and his collectors.  

However, he had forgotten that these men had no regard for consequences, not realizing that they began to open fire at the crowd in which Mortiz had vanished into.

“Where da-fuck did 'e go?!" 

“Cap'n, I can't see 'em!" 

“We've warned them before, just fucking FIRE!" 

What little of the population of Prestoria was abruptly pruned into a smaller digit than before due to the barrage of bullets which flew into the crowd. Innocent bystanders were confused by the unwelcoming balls of muskets firing from unknown territories, the gaggle of furs quickly dispersing as bullets whizzed past the whisk of the Mortiz's fur, and onto other people beside him. 

Every single day was a footwork display of survival for the young gray wolf. Despite the incentive to live, let alone even to survive, was dwindling by the day, the burning resolve in his heart only bellowed otherwise. His body was actively escaping death's row in an instinct, even despite his current notoriety. 

Due to the murder of the Duke Herrington's son, Vincent was now in top third in value of bounty in the Shilling's Board, ranking in a single gold bar; it was a rare commodity anybody would sell their soul to get a single gaze at. 

At first, he was chased down by simpleton constables upon the speculated news of Herrington's son's death. However, the circumstances of survival became more drastic when the bounty was placed among the syndicate societies of the Old Westmeister. 

Vincent's desperate jog would immediately substantiate into a desperate sprint as a few bodies fell to the ground into a pool of blood, realizing these ruthless beings would waste lives of people not even directly inflicted by this ordeal. With the crowd of merchants fleeing from the scene, Mortiz had to cut into a corner, a dark alleyway with a lamppost which was fleeting away its energy. 

Mortiz gasped for breath while he slumped against the brick wall behind him. The sensitive fur behind his nape met the cold, rough exterior of the wall, his back scraping against the jagged textures while he slid down. 

The gunshots finally ceased, but the screams of pirates and marketeers remained to sustain. Through the sounds, his heart loudly pounded with terror. Post-despair nausea began to settle; a bitter reminder of Vincent knocking at death's door hitting his mind. 

From that reminder, he had forgotten how much hated this life. How much he hated his life. 

He was no murderer, unlike the bastards who harbored a gold bar for him. They were doing the same thing that Mortiz had sought to do: To kill for the sake of greed, and to kill for the sake of survival. 

But nobody would ever properly foresee this, had he not helplessly murder a royal blood. 

He could just walk out of this dark alleyway, and forfeit himself to the arms of the privateers. Have them stop dead in their tracks and let them blast him a new hole for his forehead. But his body was rejecting that possibility. 

And yet, he hated that too.

Mortiz's vision started to become translucent, his labored breath began to slug. Realizing that the deadly ballad had worn him out. Despite his aspirations to fight this exhaustion, Vincent found himself slowly closing his eyes. 

Soon enough, his head slumped low. 

His dream was a color of black. 

____

Not even an hour would pass by, and Mortiz found himself in the comforting touch of a wool sheet. His body was no longer pressed against the cold, cobblestone ground, but rather was embraced into a mattress.

He was stripped of his dark cloak and leather boots, but it seemed to be neatly folded and set neatly next to the mat. All that remained of his attire was his brown tunic, and his black, unkempt trousers. 

There was not much to adjust his vision for. He knew where he was, and whose bed he was on. As his eyes scanned the interior of a small, wooden hut. A few candles dimmed against all four sides of the hut's foundation, but a brighter light illuminated from a fireplace crackling from a distance.

Above the hearth lay two silver catholic crosses fused and molded into each other: One cross stood vertically, while the other crossed it horizontally, forming another shape of a crucifix amongst the two. It remained to be a marginalized symbol which stood for the 'True Revelations,' not many Old Westmeister citizens had these in their houses in order to avoid ostracization of others. 

Mortiz sighed in relief. Upon taking a gander at the wooden hut's general infrastructure, he knew exactly where he was: this was his personal resting point.

Creeeaaaaaaaaaaaak….. 

Mortiz's wolfen ears twitched as he heard the door slowly open, following a pair of black, leather shoes which carefully scuffled against the planks of the floor. As the young lupine sat up from the lumpy mattress, his velvet eyes met an emerald pair in the dark glimmer.

“..Oh. Thank Goodness. You're still with us." 

A lanky, frail and elderly arctic fox slowly entered the room, a smile of reassurance bringing forth to set an environment of hospitality. He suited a chocolate-brown alb robe with a golden cincture wrapped around his waist, the same type of crosses hanging from the end of the knot. Both of his paws were clutching a metal chamberstick, but both palms were wrapped up in a fine, silky fabric, which was worn at all times for religious purposes. 

Out of the commoners in Prestoria, Father Helm, an Extoristic Priest, held him some mercy.

“I was deeply concerned that you might have sustained a few injuries. I heard the shots during my sermon. The ruckus… 'Twas pretty loud." 

Father Helm approached the lone wolf and knelt down before him. The priest hovered the metal chamberstick in front of Mortiz's face to determine if he was bruised, grazed, or cut in the face. With a grunt, Vincent laid back down, resting his arm against his eyes as he faced the ceiling. 

“You did not have to drag me back into your kirk, 'lest you want to be an open mark for the consties. I deemed that you would leave me be.. Had my presence is now standin' high on the Shilling's Board."

“Christ ordained the second felon he crucified with a grant to paradise.. And I shall too." Helm replied, sitting with his legs crossed as he put down the candle between Mortiz and him.
“..I follow what He instructs. Despite that you had shed blood, I grant you a paradise of my own domicile."

“..And yet.. Your act of mercy is putting yourself in danger.. Given the blood I shed was the one of the Duke's son." Mortiz replied, his eyes still covered by his own arm.

“And despite of that, the shelter I give you is one of uncondition." Helm protested. 

“But it is one that is a premonition of unknown consequences." 

“But-"

“Just give it up, geezer."

There was another moment of silence, which was minimally filled by the cackles of firewood from the distance.

As much as he was profoundly grateful for the kindness of Father Helm, Vincent knew the potentially dire consequences of the priest's actions. There were only two inevitable outcomes: he would be publicly lynched, or even endure a tortuous session from Duke Herrington's henchmen to the point where death would seem an act of mercy.

This was the sixth time in which Mortiz would wake up in this monastery hut. Six times too many.

Just like the bystanders who were inflicted by the disarray of musket shots which ensued an hour ago, there was too much burden of conscience which weighed the lupine. In his mind, living was a selfish privilege. The fact that he left himself vulnerable enough for the priest to rescue him again made him feel mortified.

The mortification frustrated the wolf.

“Mortiz." Helm cleared his throat. “...Why is it so important that you perish in Prestoria? And why is it so important that you do so.. Alone?" 

“What options do I even have.. Helm? Do you think I can travel anywhere else..? For my own safety? On a boat? You think I can withstand Whippersnappers and leviathan whales just so I can go to another famine-stricken shithole like this one?" 

Mortiz's voice began to escalate into a demeaning tone. 

“..I was more thinking whether I could find somewhere, outside of Prestoria. Maybe Gizmovale. The Great Dane. The Monolith."

“Things will be the same, if not worse, than here. I had people spot me off just from the thick of my fur!"

“By my God, why must you be so relentless for the touch of death?" 

“And why must you pry?!" 

“I am only trying to convey what your parents would have wan-"

“And they are both SIX FEET UNDER!" 

Upon the statement, Mortiz abruptly sat up, his face inches away from the priest. His furrowed eyes were a display of his frustrations. 

“Are you unfamiliar with the saying?! There is no hope from even attempting to save a man who's got nothing to lose. I've got NOTHING! What FUCKING dwindling resources does anybody have trying to do what you've been doing for the past months!? God! I don't even know if I want to fucking DIE or not! I flee, even when the truth demands me to forfeit!  

Even as Mortiz traded a gaze of resentment, the priest's eyes only traded a calm demeanor. He was merely not phased by his outburst. There was another wave of silence, until Vincent reciprocated another response until the young wolf retracted his face away from a personal distance. 

“...My existence… Only made sacrifices to all those around me. And the more I run, the more people drop. That is why… I feel like I want to die. Alone. But… Yet… I am still afraid… I am afraid of… What… Or… Where… I'll go after." Mortiz let out a breath, disconnecting their eye contact with the priest. Sulking the direction of his head to the ground, the lupine clutched his stomach with his arms. 

“... I am… Afraid… Of feeling the same suffering… The same feeling of knowing how and when you will die… As what my father and mother had gone through before death took them away from me." 

As usual, the silence remained deafening to both of their ears. As the two basked in the quiet environment, Helm watched the young wolf finally settle down from his outburst. The priest could not share the same suffering, but his empathy was voidless.

“When God had put an end to the sun, He foresaw the collapse of His animal kingdom would become the final testimony to His work. This, Mortiz, is purgatory. Upon the famine and diminishing choices, God tests us to determine who will go to heaven, and who will be damned to hell. As there are those in the journey of your path of survival and forgiveness, you are not one to betray them, but rather, be betrayed by the hands of the unrighteous. Whether they would be heathens.. Killers.. Or even the Dukes that run the Old Westmeister, God has given you an existence for a single purpose. Hence, amongst this… Immoral mistake, I believed that God has guided me to you, so you could glimpse His salvation as you live and breathe." 

Helm knew that Mortiz was not religious; the factor did not surprise him in the slightest. 

There was another quiet moment which hummed through the cabin. Without a response, Mortiz sunk into the sheets once more, his head and ears buried into the white fabric in order to drown out his beating heart which leapt through his torso. 

A hand crept through the wrapped figure's head, a comforting notion in which Father Helm wanted to convey. 

“We all live for a purpose here, Mortiz. And I care not if it costs me my life, or the lives of others. If you cannot continue living under my word, then persevere for the good of yourself." 

Another silence ensued between them. However, the lupine could hear the wooden planks being lightened from the pressure with a creak, assuming the priest had stood up from beside the mattress. 

“I'm going out. You should rest. The decision is yours, Mortiz, whether you want to subside here until you part again. The choice is yours." 

Mortiz peaked through half-closed eyes to see the door open and shut once more, leaving himself in the domain of silence; abandoned in his thoughts once more. 

The priest exited out of the small wooden hut, which was located in the middle of the Omen across the main square. As Prestoria was a smaller city in the Old Westmeister, the fleeting digits of the population made the compacted streets look like it was bustling. As he joined the crowd of people slowly bustling throughout the streets, the arctic fox would recognize familiar faces he would simply gaze upon during his travels from the hut to his chapel. Trading simple greetings from the churchgoers who knew him, his smile remained to be a representation of the delusional hope a small number of people had for this dying world. 

As he guided himself into the main square, Helm felt a pair of eyes, amongst the rows of the depressed, lock onto him. 

A pair of gray, silver eyes of another male wolf. 

The enigmatic lupine figure, amongst the rows of men and women in their humbly peasantry attire, suited a sailor's tunic covered by a long, brown-leathered coat with a collared fur. His outfit spoke of a distant, but domestic experience; the botched slashes endured from his leather coat was a sign of combat far beyond the land, but rather ones fought in the seas. Helm quickly jerked his head down into the cobblestone street, his foot pacing a little quicker than his casual walk. 

He dropped dead, if looks could ever kill. 

His friendly smile soon manifested into a shocked, half-petrified expression. The arctic fox had an intuition that, somehow, that he was being tailed. With suspicion, he knew that his clandestine nurturing of Mortiz Vincent would be seen.

Helm's heart pounded, his stomach churning to knots as his theory was deemed correct. The wolf began to shadow his movement, matching his speed in silence. The weight of the keen glare was burdening the arctic fox's mind, causing him to move swiftly and recklessly. 

Upon the rows of people within the crowd, another figure emerged beside the gray male wolf, a hamster, joining the wolf in this menacing pursuit. Both pairs of eyes fixated onto Helm, their collaborative presence was enough to make the priest realize the inescapable consequence of Mortiz's life.

In a matter of time, Father Helm began to sprint. 

His age, however, played a negative role to his speed. The lower part of Helm's albrobe tugged against his legs, limiting his movement to a minimum. 

The priest was born to only open his arms to sinners, but he was not born to run from them. 

However, this was the first and only time where his life would depend on running. 

Ester Helm would rather die than sell out Mortiz.

Father Helm, who seemed to be out of options, decided to absquatulate himself out of the crowd- a cardinal mistake that anybody could do in a terrifying circumstance- his foot entangling against his own robe once he reached a cul-de-sac full of empty buildings. 

Cornered, Father Helm retreated, his rear constantly scooting against the pavement as the two figures crept closer. 

“..Why must you fo..-follow me?!" Helm exclaimed, his eyes unable to cooperate with properly focusing onto the dastardly creatures before him. In a swoop, the large rodent thrusted his boot against the arctic fox's muzzle. The ground was painted with the blood of the pastor's broken nose. Despite his consciousness fleeting, he let out a loud, painful groan, tears swelling from the edge of his eyes as he followed up with a cry of despair. 

From there, the young lupine had restrained the priest by constricting his arms in order for Helm to not move any more, forcing the arctic fox to turn around to a direction of another man coming from the fogs. 

“Don't gi'me anotha reason for him to give you a taste of his boot." A cockney accent came from the figure. 

Upon the metallic smell of his bleeding nose, a stench of tobacco flew into Helm's senses. An incense of intimidation. 

Helm's emerald eyes darted over the approaching man from afar. His white furred-chest, covered in grayish-white patterns with scars that told a living folklore of slashes which were endured, was half-covered by a sailor jacket. He dressed as dirty as his work.

“..P..P…Please… I… Don't… Have… Anything…" Whispered Helm, his voice trembling in submission as the lupine restraining him tightened the fox onto his knees. 

Wojtek looked down at the pathetic priest knelt before him. Now, he was the one who welded all the power.

“Ya've got a choice to make." Wojtek arched his back to remain in contact with the pastor.

“Do as I say, or your loved ones. Your worshippers… And you… will become a bleedin' pile of guts in a grinder.."

Wojtek leaned his muzzle between Father Helm's ears, his voice condescending into a whisper.

“Right. Fuckin'. Proper."