The advent of so called “scientists” has created a community which reasons to themselves that the Mad Moon can be studied and solved like an equation. I reason they’re as mad as any who have stared into the crimson Moon.

-David of Hellefonte, cynic philosopher

Gaspard awoke after a night of fitful sleep. He unmade the barricade around the bedroom door and stepped back into the sitting room. The jesters corpse was still where he had left it, so he took comfort in that at the very least. Gaspard scoured the house for anything salvageable, and, when his search turned up nothing more than a few intact jarred foods, went on his way.

The storm had faded during the night, leaving behind a bright sky above and a shockingly clean city below. During the festival, and in the many monstrosity-filled days afterwards, a layer of filth had accumulated on every imaginable surface. The city had likewise accumulated a miasma of rot and decay, an ever-present stench that hung like a fog throughout the city. Thanks to the rain, both the filth and the accompanying stench had briefly abated.

Gaspard stepped onto a street that, for the first time in many days, was finally clear of blood, and took a breath of air that smelled only mildly of rot. It was refreshing, though after the events of last night, Gaspard allowed himself no comfort in this. Though the rain had washed away much of the external filth, the city would not be truly clean for a long time. The worm-ridden corpses that still lined the streets were proof enough of that. Trails of rusty blood on the cobblestones marked where the rain had tried and failed to wash away the stain of death.

Wading through deep, rust-colored puddles as he went, Gaspard proceeded on his way back towards the city center. His wounded shoulder had recovered as much as it was going to. It was time to get back to work.

From a distance, he could see the remnants of the festival now lying bare in the sun. Days of being bleached by the sun, and now being washed out by the rain, had drained the color from the once vibrant festival banners. The remnants of the Lunar Carnival were now as worn and ragged as the city they were meant to decorate. Gaspard appreciated the synchronicity, at least. The festive colors were often at odds with the horrors that lurked below them.

Gaspard cracked his knuckles and splashed through a puddle of blood and water. He stopped midway through and listened. Splashing made too much noise, and made it too easy for something to leap from the shadows. Gaspard’s instincts served him well, and in the silence, he heard the sound of clattering porcelain from behind him.

Gaspard found his way to dry ground, in a patch of street mostly bare of puddles. Slick water could cost him his footing in a fight, and he could not afford such a fall. He was lucky to have kept a sword arm free when pinned by the jester last night. He could not rely on luck twice.

With his sword clutched tightly in both hands, Gaspard stomped a foot on the ground. The sound acted as a beacon to the lurking monster, drawing it into the open. The lumbering creature was adorned with a dozen festival masks, hanging from it’s shoulders by rows of fabric. In another display of the Mad Moon’s macabre artistic sense, there seemed to be a unique face lurking behind each mask. Every face grew from it’s chest like a tumor, though in some cruel twist of irony, the features on the creature’s actual head was grown over with flesh, leaving it blank and faceless. Gaspard could see eyes appraising him from behind every porcelain visage, and see jaws flexing hungrily.

For someone who’s combat strategy amounted to “aim for the head”, a creature with a dozen faces presented a challenging prospect. Gaspard tightened his grip on his sword.

The masked creature shambled Gaspard’s way, dozens of eyes locked on him. Gaspard kept his eyes locked on the creature in turn. It came close, and Gaspard aimed for the closest face. The porcelain mask shattered in two under the tip of his blade, sending the two halves falling to the floor. Before his blade split it open, Gaspard got a glimpse of an inhuman face; wide jawed, with teeth like needles, and two eyes with lids that closed vertically rather than horizontally. Gaspard sneered in disgust and dug his blade in a little deeper. The grotesque face warped in pain and let out a shrieking cry that was mimicked by its dozen brothers. Gaspard answered their cries with a blow from his sword, one for each of the myriad faces. One by one the twisted visages were sliced open, their monstrous gazes covered by a wash of red blood.

The beast of many faces fell to the ground dead. Gaspard took a moment to breathe and drag a damp festival banner across his blade to clean off the tainted blood. As he did so, he heard the sound of rhytmic tapping behind him. Gaspard sighed and readied his blade once again.

To his surprise, the source of the tapping was not the claws of some sneaking beast, but the cane of a heavily-robed human -or humanoid figure, at least. The thick fabrics obscured their body, and a plague mask with a curved beak-like protrusion obscured the face. The tapping of the cane continued to ring out as the plague doctor approached Gaspard and the corpse of the many-faced beast.

“My apologies if I alarm, sir,” the plague doctor’s muffled voice said. Their voice was muffled and barely audible through the thick fabric, explaining their odd approach. Any further away and Gaspard would’ve been completely unable to hear them. “I wish to inquire about the corpse of the specimen you have so expertly slain.”

“It’s a corpse, nothing more,” Gaspard said stiffly.

“Ah, then you will not mind if I collect samples?”

Gaspard stared at the doctor. He could see no trace of their face behind the thick glass lenses.

“It’s a corpse, it’s not mine to claim. Do what you will,” Gaspard said. He sheathed his sword as the plague doctor drew a set of scalpels and other implements from the depths of their black robes.

“Excellent. Would you by any chance be interested in a joint observation of the specimen? I grow concerned that I may yet meet my end at the hands of a living specimen, and I do not wish the whole of my research to be lost.”

“I’m no man of science,” Gaspard said. “I see nothing to be gained from this.”

“Perhaps there is nothing,” the doctor admitted. “But an effort must be made. If ever we are to build a preventative to the Mad Moon’s effects, those effects must be researched. To that end-”

The doctor leaned down and made an incision on the stomach of the many-faced beast. Unlike Gaspard’s crude slashes, this was a quick, expert stroke. The bowels of the creature soon opened for all to see, filling the air with a stomach turning stench. Gaspard faced away from the creature as the doctor began to remove and examine its innards.

“Your work is admirable, but you will pardon me if I admire it from a distance,” Gaspard said. The doctor gave a slight hum of acknowledgment before engrossing themselves in the work of dissection. Gaspard took his opportunity to leave. He though the doctor mad for even attempting to unravel the secrets of the Mad Moon. But then, what did they have to lose.

“If it interests you, doctor, there is a second specimen in a nearby house,” Gaspard said, indicating the home containing the jester’s corpse. “Though decay may have set in overnight.”

“There is something to be learned from everything, even rot,” the doctor said. “My thanks.”

The doctor gave a grateful bow, which Gaspard acknowledged with a nod before moving on.