October 1998.

Red moon.

The Bloodyquinox was a once in a life-cycle opportunity. Complete the wishes of the Lunar Elder and be bestowed with a good harvest. And wishes meant sacrifice. The field was perfect for it, abandoned by its former asparagus-planting overlord. No civilization to intrude, just the horde. The ever dancing, ever-thrashing horde. They danced around the pyre they had constructed in mere moments, whirling in a shriek of ecstasy and obedience. Masks of plaster, wood and bone hid everyone’s true visage tonight. No need to show your ‘normal’ or ‘tame’ face.

The stage of cardboard staglacites and fire pits continued to roar above their heads, Nearby plucked instruments shrieked higher, louder. Wake up the Elder immediately. So much so that they wanted their dutiful shrieks to be the only thing one could hear tonight, not their own paltry, individual thoughts. Never again. Not if the decibels had anything to say about it. Wire up the zealots, warp them into a mindless self-indulgent frenzy.

CAST IT INTO THE LAKE OF FIRE
BUBBLING BLOOD FOR OUR DEAR SIRE

The demons were lapping it up. How they lapped it up! Their dark masters onstage had such a way with bellows. How wonderful it was to be warped back to one’s primal origins! An age of four legs and one single instinct. Hunting.

The fire had to go bigger. Wild enough to not just catch the bards’ notice, but the gods above as well. More sacrifices, more! No one would weep for these materials. Hoops and hollers erupted every time debris was swallowed by the gulping mouth of the fire.

LICK IT UP NOW SATAN, LIIIICK IT UPPPPP
HURRY NOW, QUICK NOW, MAKE HELL ERUPT

But the aforementioned musicians could not see the fire in full. Their stage was more than a mile away, and in the few seconds where they did not think of the lyrics or their own egos, it just looked like the size of a lit match from their depth perception. But what they could see, they liked. Extra value for the admission.

Chair. Table. Wheel. Bottle. Bracelet. Don’t spare. Don't hold back. Owning was a sin, ‘things’ were merely labels. Clothes. Underwear. Blood. Childhood trinket.
And flesh. You couldn’t not have flesh. It was tradition. Just like in the good old centuries. It was outrageous not to do something outrageous. And the largest of the minions did not have far to look. Right in the cloak room, not quite in the open, (hidden half-arsedly, you had to admit). Quiet. Small. Insignificant. Perhaps it was the drugs talking, maybe the voices (both inner and outer), but the item looked perfect. And attention was everything,

He hoisted up the container with his mighty hooves, the little wheels giving their last, sad little spin. A cloth with little rocket ships fell from it, and poofed into thin threads upon hitting the fire. Then a bottle of white liquid. Another shake. A puffy toy whale lamely hung onto the carriage’s wheel by its tail for a few seconds, as if it were truly sentient, then became the next combustible victim.

And then its occupant woke up.

And screamed.

It was enough to shock almost all of the ravers out of their chemically inebriated stupor. It wasn’t just a typical scream of horror and pain, but one of proclaimed innocence.

Their own horror came, once they saw the shark pup they had almost killed.

It had actually been a rare good night’s sleep for Knashford. Maybe it was the fact that he’d had a consistent diet of shrimp ramen the past few days (and a rare visit to the ice cream parlour), but whatever the cause, he’d taken advantage of it. Nice dreams for once, featuring soft castles and happy dragons. No ghosts, no pink-faced beings shouting about the end of the world as per usual.

But right now, he would have gladly taken the usual monsters over who engulfed him tonight. At least the pink-fleshies were fewer in number. And less scary.

He swam in mid-air to leap away from the flames, and after what seemed like eons to his infant brain, he landed in the sanctuary of unburnt ground. The atmosphere continued to change. They all backed away from him. Evil grins turned into regret, sorrow for some. The demons’ tones lowered, some even began to reach out. This did not calm Knashford in the slightest, for these hands wore gloves or spikes, belonging to strangers clad in black and horrible things. Their expressions changed again, face to face. Some weren’t looking sympathetic anymore. Annoyance, anger even.

Ford couldn’t bear it. He had such a hard time trying to merit his little existence to the few he knew personally in life, in a city of thousands that threatened to swallow him up. He ran as fast as he could on his little legs, quite speedily for a species new to the idea of ‘limbs’. All that mattered now was finding somewhere quiet, somewhere white.

Oh no, they were aiming to grab him. Oh no, they were announcing his presence on a speaker… BUMP! He bounced off the shin of a Komodo dragon, who had now lost his nachos to the threat of gravity and floor germs.

“Watch it, you little shit!”

Not the yelling. Not the direct acknowledgement…
More faces. More looking. More lights. More attention.

Knashford couldn’t think. He just couldn’t anymore.

So he fell, bawling, howling as loud as he had breaking out of the egg.

And then the music stopped. Or at least its main vocal source.

Then came a silent boom. He looked up and saw that there now lay a path from the stage to where he sat, made by someone who had punched several bodies to the sidelines. A tall figure wearing a paper mâché goat skull towered above him, black cloak attached, silver spikes on their shoulder blades. It proceeded to crouch, (even then still a tower to a 0.75-foot boy) and cocked its head.

“Knashford?!?” It sounded soft. But it knew his name. It knew his name. He had died, gone to the Bad Fiery Place and the devil knew him personally. Why? WHY?!? He’d tried to be a good little shark; do as the angry animals by the church who yelled at him in the street did; he even took their judgement of his roommates into consideration. The bawling continued.

“Knashford, it’s me!!” The devil sounded as panicked as him. Off came the skull.

It was Her… sort of. There was face-paint all over her gob, no longer blue but a swirl of black and white that made her look more owl than shark; lines around her lips… like a corpse. She resembled a monster, but… but…

“It’s me, okay? It’s mommy! Please calm down!” This firm but gentle voice was uncommon, not like the usual scolding, sighing or screeching. But it WAS her. He collapsed into her wet, muscled arms and sobbed. Not in relief, but disbelief.

The entire hall was still now. Ears took a backside to the eyes.
“Sssh… sshhh.. it’s okay” Eurydice whispered. “You’re okay…” Knashford’s cries devolved into muffled gurgles.

The remaining figure on the stage tore off her own mask and watched mother & son embrace in still silence. Some would shed a tear at a Capraesque sight like this, but Mittens Malone the goth-coywolf just sighed.