"Upon review of past survivors, no common thread may be found. The Mad Moon shows no bias for the pious or the wicked, the scholar or the fool."

-Nico Voticel, in his essay "Historical Cycles of the Mad Moon"

Gaspard appraised the figure heading down the street from a distance. They were walking upright, which was a good sign. Gaspard had seen other things, skittering on all fours or lurching forward with backs hunched, surely touched by the Mad Moon. Against his better judgment, Gaspard approached in the open, walking the other way down the street. Inevitably he crossed paths with the figure as they both made their way down the street. Gaspard stopped about twenty paces away, as did the stranger, and they held their ground as they silently appraised one another.

From Gaspard’s perspective, all evidence pointed to this stranger having his wits about him, as he had seen fit to arm and armor himself. The plate armor was of the sort one would find lining a nobleman's hallways as decoration, but judging from the dents, conspicuously arranged in rows that resembled a bite from a massive jaw, it had earned its keep at least once. The mace hanging at his hip was also simple in appearance, but its effectiveness was made clear by the blood crusted on the edges. The armored visage looked up and down at Gaspard's bloodstained garb. Any look of approval or disapproval was hidden under the visor of the helmet.

"Sleep well?" the stranger asked. His deep voice resounded off the metal of the helmet.

"Better than I ever shall again, I imagine," Gaspard said.

The two shared a quiet chuckle. The stranger extended an ironclad hand, and Gaspard grabbed it and pumped it once in greeting. Among the festival's bloody remnants there was a bench that was, somehow, untouched by blood, and had a respectable distance between it and the nearest pile of mutilated corpses. It was the closest thing either could hope to find to a comfortable seat, and they took advantage of that stroke of luck.

"Gaspard," he said. "Until recently a counter of coin."

The man introduced himself, and offered up his former profession: a humble farmer.

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"A banker and a farmer, and yet which of us is better off now?" Gaspard noted dryly. He tapped his knuckles against the farmer's armor.

"Mere luck," the farmer said. "I was drawn into a banquet with a former commander who kept rows upon rows of armor. His manor is only an hours walk away, if you seek arms and armor of your own."

Gaspard looked down at the broken sword he still clung to, and his blood-stained festival garb. He had already torn the only clean portion of his shirt to bandage his wounded arm, so everything he now wore was stained with blood -either his or the blood of others.

"I believe I will have need of it, yes," Gaspard said. The farmer provided more accurate directions, and a description of the manor in question.

"As well, I would be happy to accompany you, and to have you accompany me," the farmer said. Reaching beneath the plate of his cuirass briefly, the farmer withdrew a silver key tied to a leather cord. "My host bequeathed this to whomever survived the night. A key to a fortified bunker within the city wall, with enough food and drink to last weeks. A fine place to wait out these beasts, yes?"

Gaspard nodded, and stared into the distance.

“A generous gift,” Gaspard said. “My host bequeathed me nothing but a secret I’d rather not have known.”

“There is little cause to be troubled by secrets now, my friend,” the farmer said. “No more maidens to gossip of affairs and scandals now. Think nothing of it.”

The farmer replaced the key and gave Gaspard a hearty slap on the shoulder. Gaspard barely blinked at the attempted gesture of camaraderie.

"Think on this, rather: I shall soon have no shortage of resources, but I shall certainly be lacking in company to wile away the hours with. What say we make for my inheritance together, Gaspard?"

"I appreciate your generosity, good sir, but I have no intent to hide," Gaspard said. He stood, bowed politely to the farmer, and headed in the direction of the armory. "I intend to hunt."

"To hunt?" The farmer stood, his armor clanking with every sudden movement. "Gaspard, a hunt is a death as sure as a blade through the heart. There are devils in this city the likes of which you cannot imagine!"

Gaspard spun on his heel and threw his blood-stained arms wide.

"I can imagine devils well, my friend," Gaspard said with a smile. "And more than I wish myself alive, I wish them dead.”

With a flourish of his broken blade, Gaspard gave a low bow to the farmer and then turned once more towards the promised armory.

"If we do not meet again, recall my name to others. I shall do the same for you."

With that, Gaspard set out, treading with purpose towards the armory. The farmer watched him go, and tightened the belt that held his cuirass to his chest.

"Godspeed, Gaspard," he muttered. He walked towards his promised bunker, seeking safety, while Gaspard walked deeper into the city, seeking death.