“My colleague Alfonse argues that madness is inevitable. I must protest. The Mad Moon is a trouble of this world, and a man can exit this world any time he chooses, as I shall demonstrate.”

-Ciprian Nitalis, famed philosopher, in his suicide note

Gaspard kept his eyes on the ground as he walked through the park. It had been a place of beauty amid the urban sprawl of the city once. In a way, it was still beautiful. The festival banners sprawled between every limb of every tree, complimenting the flowers below. The beautiful colors were notably undercut, however, by the nooses that also hung from every tree.

Not all had embraced the hedonistic revelry of the Lunar Carnival. Some had sought refuge in piety, some had sought to shield themselves with the occult, and some had sought to not face the moon at all. The park was littered with those who had come to end their lives, to die with their sanity intact. Most by hanging, some by a blade, others laid seemingly untouched, no doubt having imbibed some manner of poison.

Gaspard could only wonder why so many had come to the park. The hangings, Gaspard understood to an extent. Not everyone had a sturdy crossbeam holding up their roof. The blades and the poisons, though, confused him for a moment. One would think they would wish to die in the comfort of their own homes.

Gaspard looked at the few flowers that remained intact, and at the ribbons and banners hanging from the branches. Streamers of every color blew in the wind between the dangling bodies. Perhaps they had come here to die among beautiful things. Then Gaspard looked to the dozens of bodies that lingered in the park. Perhaps, as well, they had come all this way to not die alone.

The wind blew stronger, and the ribbons swung in the breeze -as did a single empty noose. Gaspard examined the limp rope and saw that the loop had been broken. There was no body beneath the broken rope. He muttered a curse beneath his breath.

Some of the lighter banners fluttered as Gaspard dashed by. With a dancer’s grace suddenly imbued into his exhausted body, Gaspard carefully wove swift footsteps between the tangled roots of the trees and the tangled limbs of the dead. He had no desire to see what monstrosity an awakened suicide would become. Better to leave this park and its legion of dead behind. He held his half-sword close at his side all the same. That he was even alive to see such horrors meant that luck did not favor him.

The wind blew, the bloodstained banners waved, and between the trees Gaspard saw something else move. Something with long, narrow limbs, and reddened skin. His sprint stopped, and he pressed his shoulder against a tree, trying to put it between him and the monster. Hopefully he could remain out of sight. Experience had taught Gaspard that most of these creatures were not gifted with perception. Until he reached the armory the farmer had informed him of, Gaspard intended to stick to the shadows and stay out of sight.

The wind blew, and one of the dangling corpses shifted in the breeze. Gaspard tried not to focus on them. Even through the decay that had set in, Gaspard could tell the corpse looked young. He shifted slightly to put the swaying corpse out of view, and so missed the fraying threads that began to split more and more as the rope turned in the breeze.

With a snap, the tension gave way and the bloated corpse fell to the ground with a loud thud. Gaspard could hear a guttural grunt of curiosity from something on the other side of the trees, and he swore under his breath. Long limbs skittered through the undergrowth towards the fallen corpse, and Gaspard readied his half-sword. He swung the moment he saw one of its reddened limbs reach around the trunk of the tree. The bladed edge caught the long limb and severed it with surprising ease.

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The suicide monstrosity let out a yelp of pain and peered with dead eyes at its stump of a limb. Gaspard backed away, taking only a moment to glance at its full horror. It had a long, willowy body, with rough red skin and pale, sunken eyes. The most disturbing feature of the beast was its neck, elongated and limp, with a head dangling from it like a bauble at the end of a chain. Apparently whatever man this thing had been had just barely put himself to the noose when the Mad Moon’s light had reached him, and his new, monstrous form retained the shattered neck. Gaspard hoped the limp throat would be as easy to cut as the arm.

After a moment of staring forlornly at its severed arm, the suicide let out a low, mournful wail and reared up onto its hind legs. It was unnaturally tall, even by the standards of the monstrosities, as if hanging had caused its limbs to stretch. Its limp neck dangled and swayed along with the tree branches as the wind blew, and the suicide began to shamble towards Gaspard. He swore, out loud this time, and fled the park, intent on leaving the trees, and hopefully this abomination, behind.

Even as he ran Gaspard could hear branches bending and cracking as the suicide shambled its way through the forest. It was moving slowly, relative to its size, but with great purpose, all the while continuing that mournful groaning. It sang its own dirge as it stumbled after Gaspard, trailing blood behind it.

Gaspard broke through the treeline at the park’s edge and looked around for an advantageous position. The area around the park was mostly an open plaza, which offered his long-limbed opponent far too much room to outmaneuver him. His eyes locked on to a large house with curved walls and a large balcony extending from the second floor. It would be his best bet. The balcony would force the creature to stoop low, and the odd angles would make it harder to strike. Gaspard made a dash for the wall, put his back to it, and stood in the shadow of the balcony, sword held high and waiting.

The suicide lurched out of the trees, its head swinging like a pendulum on its broken neck. The torso turned to allow the limp head to examine the surroundings, and its sunken eyes focused on Gaspard and his blade. It’s sorrowful howl grew louder as it lumbered forward. It leaned down, stooping low to crawl forward on its three remaining limbs. Slowly, howling all the while, it approach Gaspard.

Then it stopped. It’s blank, forlorn stare fixated on Gaspard’s broken sword. The suicide held up its severed limb and wailed ever louder, gesturing towards the blade with its stump. Gaspard froze in uncertainty. He didn’t know if this strange cry was a holdover of the Moon’s madness, or some kind of hunting gambit. Perhaps it was to lull him into a false sense of security -or to distract him from some partner on the hunt. Gaspard glanced from side to side and saw nothing but the suicide beast, still howling as if it was crying for attention.

Gaspard stared into the screaming face dangling from that broken neck. The eyes remained fixated on Gaspard’s sword while the severed stump of a limp waved beckoningly.

Realization struck Gaspard like an arrow through the throat. The monster was focused on his sword, on the wound, because it wanted to finish what it had started. It wanted to die.

It remembered.

With a bellow of horror he might have though impossible for any man, much less himself, Gaspard lunged forward, sword held high. The suicide offered no resistance as Gasperd made the first or cut, or the second, or third, onwards to the hundredth. Gaspard cut and cut and cut again until the broken neck and lanky limbs were bloody ribbons scattered across the plaza. Gaspard looked down at the slaughter he had wrought and saw the head of the suicide rolling in a pool of its own blood, with a look of relief on its twisted face.

The tip of his sword plunged into the skull of the beasts head, shattering it. Gaspard turned his back on the bloody pool and ran, unable -and unwilling- to think on the matter any longer.