"To those who retain their sanity, and inherit the daunting task of rebuilding civilization, I offer this reminder: Man is not defined by his institutions, the banks and monarchs who order our society. The dignity of man is born in small ways."

-Ezio Kepri, artist and philosopher, in his final address to his party guests

It had taken Gaspard the better part of three hours, and one slain well-dwelling beast, to find a well that didn't have a body part, or an entire body, floating in it. It took even longer to draw the water and pour enough of it over himself to wash the blood off. He had reached the armory and looted himself a set of clean clothes and armor, and he had no desire to carry the scent of rot and blood from his previous soiled outfit to his new clothes. He didn't bother himself with a thorough scrub, but he did pour bucket after bucket of water over his head to wash away most of the stench. It was one of the few standards Gaspard had set for himself.

The weeks before the Lunar Carnival had been liberating, in a sense. With society's collapse imminent, they had been freed from responsibility and expectation. All labor had ceased, all debts were forgiven, and even basic niceties like shaving had been set aside. Gaspard rubbed his chin. He didn't miss shaving, but he'd gladly trade having to go back to work for not fighting monsters every few hours. Gaspard envied the dead. He even envied the mad monstrosities he faced. At least their troubles were over. If he even survived the hunt he'd embarked on, Gaspard would spend the rest of his life cleaning up after the Mad Moon.

Gaspard removed his boots and shook some of the blood-tinted water out of them. He was now clean enough that he had no excuse not to get moving. The sun was setting. There would be no Mad Moon tonight, but that did not make the darkness safe. There streets were lined with potential respite, at least. Most of the population had been gathered at lavish parties, or out in the streets enjoying the pleasures of the Lunar Festival, and had not bothered to lock the doors behind them, knowing that they would never return. Gaspard kicked open the first door he came across and found an empty house. There was even enough food left in the pantry to tide him over for a night. He made a quick meal of it and got to the real work of the night.

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The kitchen table made a good barricade for the door, with the aid of some chairs propping it into place. Most of the other furniture got braced around the windows. It was harder to barricade those, but Gaspard didn't need them to be fully blocked off. He only needed to ensure that anything trying to break through would make a very loud noise. He'd been a light sleeper even before the collapse of civilization.

There was a bedroom already situated at the center of the building, which was convenient. Gaspard propped the bed frame against the door and laid the mattress on the ground. He removed most of his wet clothing and tossed it aside before preparing his new found clothing and armor for the next day. Stripped down to his underclothes, Gaspard took his sword in hand and laid on the humble bed, staring up at the ceiling.

He didn't know where his next meal was going to come from. What little food hadn't been devoured by hedonistic party-goers or gluttonous madmen was going to spoil quickly. There was always the farmer and his supposed hoard of food. Assuming the farmer's noble host had told the truth, there was months of food for the taking. Gaspard didn't quite believe they had been telling the truth, though. He wouldn't trust any of them, before or after the end of civilization. He'd spent too much time working with money to trust anyone who had too much of it.

His own host had decided to be truthful, before the end, but that had lessened Gaspard's trust in man, if anything. A man who confessed at the last minute was, if anything, more selfish than a man who kept his secret. The host had shared his secret believing it was somehow an act of redemption. He had sought only to unburden his own soul, not to share the truth or aid anyone else. Now Gaspard had to bear the burden in his place -to carry the weight of truth.

As he laid in the growing darkness, illuminated only by a single lantern, Gaspard pondered his course. His hunt. Those liars he hunted were likely dead or mad. All those they had deceived shared the same fate, or didn't know they'd been lied to in the first place. But Gaspard knew the truth. And the truth mattered.

The lantern stayed on as Gaspard struggled to sleep. Outside, the occasional howl rang in the distance, and though it may have been Gaspard’s imagination, he would swear he heard the sound of gnawing. Sleep eventually caught up to the exhausted Gaspard, and he drifted off into the darkness, hopefully not for the last time.