"There is nothing more frightening than an angry mob. When a hundred eyes turn to look at you, and you see no recognition in them, no love, you realize what true loneliness is. The sheer terror of it all slowly creeps inside of you, and you realize with a terrible certainty that only blood will serve to end the nightmare. Your blood."
-Marikosa Shelley

"It was him!" A tiny Woodlin creature screamed, jabbing one greasy paw at Judas. "He's the one who brought the forest folk to our village! He's the one that took our children!"

"No!" Judas bleated as he backed away, one hand instinctively touching the knob of silver along his brow. "Please! I didn't bring anyone here! I'm one of you! You have to believe me!"

"Liar! You're Hornsent through and through!" Another Woodlin cried out, clawing at the pages of their Scripture book. "Fear the beast born of Fang and Horn and Claw. Trust not their wicked words, for they will only lure you into their hungry maws!"

"I'm one of you!" Judas kept screaming, the very real fear sinking in that he might actually die. "I left the forest for a reason! I cut my own horns off to be here! I'm one of you!"

"Silence apostate!" Someone shouted.

"He took our children!" yelled another.

"Heretic!"

"Monster!"

"Traitor!"

Someone threw a rock at Judas, hitting him square in the temple and knocking him into the mud. Through the grime and tears, he could see the mob creeping closer, brandishing wooden farm tools, oaken staffs, some uncoiling rope from a heavy spool.

Mother protect his spirit. Were they intending to hang him?

"Please," Judas begged, tongue heavy and swollen in his mouth, bloody drool tickling his lower lip. "I didn't do anything! But I know who took them! I know where to find them! I can take you to him! We can get your children back!"

It was starting to rain now, the smell of smoke and burnt thatch mixing into the road dust and painting the world black.

"Quiet!" A Woodlin screeched, one of the baker boys by the size of his arms. "No more lies! You just want to lure us into the monster's lair! First he takes our children and then us!"

There was a terrible cheer, then another rock was flung, this one missing its mark and striking the old oak tree planted in the center of town. It ricocheted off the heavy trunk, bits of dry bark sprinkling down onto Judas. Lightning knifed overhead, freezing shadows in the afterglow.

"I'm not lying! I can take you to him!" Judas found his footing somehow, standing warily to his feet.. The mob surged closer, disinterested in anything he had to say.

Strange, he thought, how quickly some folk turn on you. Three years he'd lived in the Woodlin's village, helping them as best as he could, and not once asking for anything in return. He'd left the forest for a reason, he'd given up every gift the Old Dogs had given him so he could be a part of the Mother's village instead. And when tragedy struck, he was left to take the blame.

Somebody hit him. Might have been Esther, a Prickleback he'd helped a time or two with chores. Might have been old Solomon, a silver haired Flat Tail he'd helped build a barn once. The fur on the knuckles had been brown, and both were known to hit folk when they got angry.

Either way, Judas found himself sprawled out in the mud again, strong hands grabbing at him, tearing away his clothes, revealing shaggy, white fur beneath. They wrenched his head up, the sharp nip of rope coiling around his neck like a hungry serpent.

"Plea—," was all Judas could muster before a powerful force snatched him up and hauled him towards the sky. He kicked, struggled, the noose around his throat tightening, vision blurring around the edges.

And all around him the Woodlin's laughed, and cheered, and jabbed at him with their tools. And for what? To make their misery feel a little more palatable? To inflict some imaginary justice against their very real trespassers?

It made no sense to Judas, but in all honesty none of it really did. He had left The Forest for a reason, but it seemed its maddening influence had somehow followed him.

"Enough!" Someone punched the Woodlin holding the hangman's rope, sending them sprawling. With a terrible lurch, Judas fell face first into the mud for a third time, coughing, sputtering, his mouth tasting of blood and mud, and he was grateful for it.

"Enough of this! All of you!" Peter, one of the Dogmen allowed to live amongst the other Woodlins pushed his way through the crowd, gray mane bristling in the storm winds. He stood a head taller than most in the village, his barking voice easily swaying the mob to listen.

"You should be ashamed of yourselves," Peter continued. "Attacking one of your own! Turning on them when they've done nothing to deserve it!"

Judas blinked in surprise as he was picked up and placed back onto shaky ground. Peter towered over him, surrounding him like the shepherds of old written about in Scripture.

"Are you all right?" the Dogman asked. "Rope's gonna leave a nasty scar, I'm afraid."

"I'll be fine," Judas rasped, his throat rough and raw as freshly tanned hide. "Thank you...for saving me."

"Save your thanks for when we get out of this alive."

"What?" But his meager voice was soon overtaken by the mob again as bitter rage and anger took over. They charged at him, desperate paws snatching at him, barely held back by the Dogman's strength.

"What do you think you're doing, Peter?" One of the Woodlins demanded.

"He's an apostate! He brought The Forest Folk to our very doorstep!"

"They took my children!"

"Hang him! Hang him!"

"Back! All of you! Back!" Peter pulled the wooden truncheon from his belt, the standard tool of a village watchman, and clubbed a Woodlin in the head. The villager fell back squealing, blood trickling over matted fur.

"I said back!" The Dogman held the club out, jabbing at anyone brave enough or stupid enough to try and take him head on. "The Overling would be ashamed of you all if he were still with us! He brought the scripture to our village so that we could join the Mother under one tribe, not use her words to turn on our own!"

"He's not one of us!" A Woodlin screamed. "He's a child of The Forest! He's the evil the Scripture warned us about!"

"He's just like me!" Peter pulled his cheek back, revealing two narrow gaps in his teeth. The places where his canines would have been. "I removed the evil from my body so that I could live amongst you in the Mother's flock, and so has Judas. Will you hang me as well then? Will you blame me for the taking of your children as you now blame him?"

The mob paused for once, either too shocked to contradict the Dogman, or too scared of what might happen if they tried.

"Then back to your homes!" Peter said. "Away with you all! I will handle this matter myself!"

The crowd glared at Judas, but in the end they relented, slinking into the ruins of their former houses, set upon with the impossible task of rebuilding what was lost.

"Are you all right?" Peter asked.

It took Judas a minute to realize it was the Dogman speaking to him. "I...yes, I'm all right. The rope will leave a scar like you said, but that's flesh for you. The roadmap of the soul, as the Mother likes to say."

Judas chuckled, more for his own sake than anyone else's. "So, what happens now?" He continued. "I take it you didn't save me just so you could kill me later."

Peter frowned, as if the very idea alone smelled awful. "No, I didn't. You said you knew who took the children. Is that true?"

Judas blinked. How long had the Dogman waited before coming to his rescue? Long enough to hear his confession, he supposed. "Yes, it is. Does knowing this condemn me of some crime written in the Scriptures?"

"Only the crime of Sloth, if nothing is done about it." Peter's eyes were a shade of the brightest blue, considered by many to either be a blessing of the Mother, or a curse given to him by the Old Gods, depending on who you asked. Most Woodlins believed they were blessed with eyes of black by the Mother, and that any other color meant you'd been spurned of her gracious touch.

But Peter had been granted clemency by the old Overling, whose corpse now lay not but a few feet from where Judas stood. So it didn't really matter, not until his usefulness ran out.

Lightning flashed in the sky, making Peter's eyes shimmer like the very ocean itself, storm winds whipping his gray fur in a wild frenzy, revealing corded muscle, a powerful jaw, the remnant blessings given to those born of Fang, and Horn and Claw.

"You will help me find the children," Peter said. "You will show me where they've been taken. And then we are taking them back. It will be the only way to absolve yourself of sin."

He stared Judas down. "You have a choice, of course, but I fear what the village will do to you if I am forced to commit to this journey alone."

A cold knife ran through Judas as his mind quickly filled in the blanks. "I'll need to pack first."

"Then do so quickly," Peter said as he scanned the windows and doors, distrustful eyes glaring back at him. "I doubt their blood lust will be satisfied if we continue to linger."

Judas packed furiously. He didn't need much, but what he did need would be paramount for their survival. He bumped into a shelf hanging along the wall of his tiny, cramped lodgings as he reached for his satchel, knocking over a few tiny potted plants. They cracked and crumpled to the ground, seeding buds that would never see the light of spring again, all because of one careless mistake.

He tried not to dwell on it as he stuffed his meager life into one grubby sack. Amazing how little you truly needed when given nothing from the start. A few changes of clothes, a few knobs of sap for torchlight, and—,

Judas paused to look around, making sure no one could see him before he crouched low, fishing out the heavy lump he'd kept under his mattress for three years now, ferreting it away in his pack before anyone else could guess what it was.

The Woodlins have a saying in their village, a guiding mantra to protect their way of life. Fear the icons of the past. Fear all color in the eyes. Fear the freezing winters, but above all else, fear the tainted earth touched by the hands of the Old Gods, turned cold and lifeless by their wicked ways.

If any of the Woodlins knew what he had, they would do more than just hang him. It would have been a blessing if they had. But Judas was quick, and he stuffed the lump away, sliding the satchel over one shoulder and cinching it tightly shut.

There was a knock, the sound of a door opening, then a hollow bonk as Peter's head struck the low hanging ceiling.

Judas turned about, unable to stop himself from tugging shamefully at his pack, but the Dogman didn't seem to notice, too busy nursing his bruised skull.

"Are you ready to go yet?" Peter asked. He'd put on his Watchman's uniform while he was gone, oak truncheon cinched at his side. He had a wooden shield as well, tied up along with the rest of his gear.

He looked more prepared for battle than the light travel Judas was praying for.

"I am."

"Good, it's best we get going then. I had to convince a few of the more tenacious Woodlins to go back to their homes."

Judas gulped, imagining the noose around his neck again. "I never properly thanked you for what you did back there. Saving my life, I mean."

"You will thank me by helping me bring back the children." Peter bowed and made to leave. "After that, the debt is paid."