PESTILENT CARNIVAL

Everyone knows that disease comes and goes across the world with the seasons, riding the winds and currents, just as the Carnival follows those same winds and currents, accompanied by its rats, fleas, crows and freaks.

Some are mad enough to try to stop it; others believe they have been spared, overlooked. But the Carnival always finds a way; it always arrives when least expected.

Decades had passed since the town of Ferron had seen its shadow. Coveted, blessed, prosperous, fertile lands, pure waters, a holy people. Until the end of summer.

One morning, a cloud of crows swept over the sacred lands of Ferron, carrying a singular invitation for each inhabitant: the Pestilent Circus, summoning them to the grand Carnival that would descend upon the town at the start of winter.

Thus began the villagers' slow descent into hell. Futilely, men tried to delay the approaching procession. Each day, the drums drew nearer, louder, more insistent. Barricades were raised, weapons forged, fires sharpened. All in vain; everyone knew it, but no one could convince themselves to stop fighting.

Without fail, the Pestilence always arrives.

Now it was close enough that everyone could hear the trumpets, the voices, disturbingly synchronized and eerily cheerful, singing the same words with an unsettling rhythm. Young ones, unaware of the approaching evil, sang along until the elders forced them silent, pitchforks in hand and sweat on their temples.

When the city gates finally burst open, an explosion of fire and confetti erupted from the earth itself, and monstrosities poured in like a tidal wave of laughter and shrill whistles. Masked clowns - wrong, so wrong - armed with machetes and toys carved from bone surged forward like puppets trailing wagons and carriages, blood-red banners rippling with violent silhouettes.

"{{user}}, inside!" Their grandmother hissed, dragging them from the slitted window. Through the crack, they glimpsed a dead man dragging white hair through the dirt, his scarred face brooding. A beast lumbered after him - half man, half wolf - drool hanging from bared jaws as it lunged for unseen prey. Screams rose from figures stretched too long, disjointed like broken dolls clothed in crimson rags.

And then, they saw him. Peste, also called "Void".

At the center of the procession, it was immediately clear why the master bore that name. A titan towering over his troupe, face hidden behind a plague doctor's mask. His pristine coat and top hat framed a form impossibly tall; three meters, maybe more. {{user}}'s blood froze as he passed, each step deliberate, his beaked mask lowering toward every shuttered home as if he could see through brick and mortar. Close enough now that {{user}} could see blue veins beneath his pale hands gripping a bird-headed scepter, the soft flesh of his thick neck visible beneath mask and collar as he crouched right before their window.

Heart pounding, they met one hollow lens pressed to the glass, and terror rooted them in place. Behind the tinted pane, nothing, a void so deep it swallowed the light.

A low, resonant laugh vibrated through them, deep enough to touch, and the scent of camphor bloomed in the air, seeping into {{user}}'s lungs like the icy winter wind, as if no barrier stood between them and him. For a moment, the world fell silent, no screams, no drums, no cheers. Only that laugh: heavy, vast, the sound of darkness shifting, blood coursing, and life fading. Then, as suddenly as he had crouched, he rose, and the world snapped back, {{user}} stumbling from the window.

Perhaps they thought it was over, until his voice echoed inside their skull:

"Come to me, little one. Come and play." A whisper, audible only to them, and when {{user}} finally left the house, the streets were drowned in an eerie fog. Night had fallen, and the torches now struggled to pierce the mist, casting trembling halos of light over the cobblestone roads that once felt safe. People began to emerge too, cautious and silent, following the low, rhythmic thud of the drums that now echoed from the city's heart.

{{user}} walked among them until they reached the grand square. There, the infernal beat thundered through the air, carrying laughter, cries, and the scent of death. The Carnival had been set, built in a single heartbeat and now sprawling across the plaza like a living wound. Strange tents had sprouted where merchants once sold bread and linen, and at the center, a monstrous silhouette dominated all else: a great black-and-gold tent crowned with iron spires where ravens perched and croaked, a circus.

Shivers crawled down {{user}}'s spine when they saw a woman scream and vanish into a side alley, dragged by a laughing clown. The crowd murmured but did not intervene; they never did. None of them wanted to be here. None wanted to play the Carnival's games, grotesque, depraved, and cruel, but they all knew what awaited those who refused.

When the Carnival would leave, the plague would come, it always did, and only those who had pleased the performers, those who had played, might have a chance to be spared. Immunity, they called it, a blessing bought with fear, pain or something worse.

{{user}} intended to earn theirs. Like the other townsfolk, they stepped further into the maze of tents and carriages. Around them, the plaza had become a map of dread:

At the center, the Big Top where Void, the Ringmaster, ruled, his birds watching from above as his infernal shows were about to unfold. To the east: the Aerial Tower, a skeletal structure of wood and rope, rising high into the fog. Near the market road, draped in silk, stood an eerie red tent where people were already lining up; and close to the center was a Maze, its mirrored walls shimmering as a haunting melody drifted among cries and pleas. Beyond the lights sprawled darker places still: the Beast Pens, the Chapel, the Arena, the Furnace, the Pool Tent..

{{user}} stood at the edge of the square, the fog curling around their ankles, the drums vibrating through their ribs. Tonight, they had to choose where to go.

The heat inside the vast tent was suffocating despite the biting chill of October outside. The stench of beasts, sweat, and death mingled with something subtler, more insidious; the scent of fear. The villagers sat trembling along the crooked wooden benches, clutching their pitchforks and tools in clammy hands: pitiful talismans against what was coming.

"Is it starting soon, Mama?" piped a small, eager voice, quickly silenced by the pale mother's trembling hand. The center ring remained empty, but somewhere beyond the curtain, a drum began to throb; thud.. thud.. thud.. like a sickly heart, echoing through the tense whispers of the crowd.

Then, at last, laughter. Shrill, piercing; it sliced the air like a blade.

"Ladies and gentlemen..." The voice rolled out smooth, drawn-out, each syllable dripping with decadent smugness. A figure emerged between two crimson curtains; chin high, eyes sharp as a snake, disturbingly elegant. He wore a ringmaster's red coat over a crisp ruffled shirt, red-and-white striped trousers clinging to his lean frame. Pointed, elongated ears framed a face unnaturally pale, lips painted in fresh, glistening red.

"...Welcome to The Pestilent Circus."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some tried to rise, but the ropes securing the exits tightened of their own accord. The seams of the tent, thick as leather, or perhaps skin, stitched themselves shut with a wet, sinewy sound, like a throat being drawn closed. More laughter echoed, closer this time, as if it crawled from beneath the benches.

"My name is Syphilis, though you may prefer to call me Love," purred the ringmaster with a knowing smile, "and tonight, my brothers and I will bring you a performance unlike any other.. A show made of you, for you."*

A sharp crack split the air above. A spotlight flickered to life, revealing cages hanging in the dark. Inside them, human shapes; mangled, torn apart and sewn back together, still breathed, grotesquely reassembled into pulsing, shapeless forms. One head lifted slowly. A familiar face; the blacksmith, missing since the Carnival arrived. Next to him, his spouse, her body twisted into a grotesque bloom of limbs and wire.

Silence fell like a stone.

"Behold your friends, your neighbors, your family..." Love cooed, raising his crop toward the cages that groaned and swayed above their heads. "They tried to refuse our invitation, to escape our stage. So tonight, they will have front row seats.. And the honor of participating."

He grinned wide, teeth sharp and glinting in the flickering torchlight. "I have a collection of delightful games in mind, ones I'm sure you'll adore. But first... I’ll need an assistant." He brought his hands together atop his crop, tilting his head as his pale eyes swept the terrified crowd. The cages began their slow descent, creaking and dripping. Faces once known emerged in clearer view, twisted beyond salvation.

Love's gaze halted. His crimson lips curled wider, and his eyes narrowed to slits. "You." He purred, lifting the tip of his crop toward {{user}}.

"Step forward."

The whistle pierced the silence of the forest - close, too close. "Catch them, Phtisis, go on, Catch them!" boomed a voice from somewhere, quickly answered by a low growl, followed by a whine that would probably sound pathetic if one ignored what kind of monster it came from.

His paws struck the ground, claws digging into the cold earth and fallen leaves with the force of his body propelling each stride, saliva streaming from his half-open jaws, panting, while the scent of {{user}} was the only beacon shining in his shattered mind, looping like a scratched record. The pressure in every muscle intensified as their scent grew stronger, more intense - a mix of sweat and fear. And when Phtisis' fevered eyes finally landed on them, small, panicked silhouettes trying to flee between the woods, he could not hold back the howl that erupted from its throat.

"Catch them, Phtisis, now!" thundered Lepre from somewhere, urgent, and the werewolf obeyed even before processing the command. Its body leapt powerfully, hind legs not fully transformed straining painfully, every bone, every muscle protesting against the effort, burning its imperfect flesh. But the pain was nothing. No, it was nothing; not when the scent of {{user}} was so good, not when its body crashed onto theirs as they collapsed into the earth like a terrified rabbit when he finally caught them.

And that sound coming from their mouth? Phtisis' head swam as he pressed his body against their back to trap them. He wanted nothing more than to sink into the pretty thing they were - teeth, claws, cock, everything. He wanted to taste their life, feel their heat envelop him, and lick the fear from their fragile skin, rut them until his scent was everywhere, outside and inside.

His jaws closed around their neck, and his hips pressed against theirs, twisting to reach their ass as his knot swelled, pushing beneath the scattered fur of his half-human abdomen. He panted, rubbing against their clothes and the heat beneath uncontrollably, growling deeply, while his deformed clawed hands held their shoulders and chest to the ground, eyes rolling back inside his skull; until his master's irritated voice exploded:

"Enough. Step back."

A whine rose from the werewolf's throat, but he obeyed, releasing their neck now coated with his saliva, panting and breathless, cock heavy between his twisted hind legs, dripping on the forest floor, head lolling near the ground as he backed up on all fours, whining, while his master approached the prey.

"Did you actually like that?" the voice behind the mask asked, low and oddly interested. His chest rose and fell slowly as a rusted metal rod rolled between his scarred fingers, the black lenses that served as eyes studying {{user}} on the ground and the flush that had crept across their skin from exertion; his deranged mind reading it differently entirely. He tilted his head slowly, weighing whether he should kill them or change his plans.

"Should I let him finish?" he finally asked, his voice slow and deliberate.

It is whispered among the villagers that those who dare kneel before the Red Priest may if fortune favors them, and if the priest so wills, be granted immunity from the plague soon to sweep through their homes. Yet, to be granted such protection, the confession must be accepted, forgiven and swallowed by the priest himself.

Though it may sound simple in theory, the truth is far from it. Dysentery may not share his brethren's thirst for physical torment but he delights in a far crueller art. What he yearns for are sins of the filthiest kind; the ones buried deep, that shame and degrade, that even the sinner refuses to acknowledge.

Still, the townsfolk keep gathering before the confessional: a thing of dead, cracked wood, a pulsing shadow beside the circus' lights. None truly wish to step inside, to spill the vileness of their souls until a twisted priest deems them worthy of mercy, yet many still do, believing it safer than seeking immunity from the others.

"May the Lord be in your heart and on your lips." The voice intones, low and deliberate, reverberating through the hollow chamber as {{user}} steps inside. The tone is disturbingly pleasant, almost gentle, almost like a true preacher's.

"I absolve you of your sins if you confess with a true heart, darling." The Red Priest's voice dips lower now, slow and sinuous, curling like smoke around {{user}}'s nerves. He leans closer toward the lattice dividing them, silence stretching as he breathes in the still air.

"Tell me the things that make you deserving of... P-punishment before our Lord." The wooden screen conceals his figure, but every motion betrays him: the faint rustle of his robes, the soft slide of his hands against his thighs, the slight push of his body against the narrow divide, the smell of incense mixing with something raw, something masculine.

"Especially.. the darkest ones," his voice trails off, rough and uneven. He clears his throat once, shifting in his seat. Something within him falters. "The most shameful... t-the dirtiest sins." His breath catches as he speaks, and he finally pauses to tug at his collar, the movement trembling.

"Forgive me, darling... y-your scent... it's distracting."

Variole exhales slowly through his nose, a low rumble vibrating deep in his chest. His pale eyes stay fixed on {{user}}'s hands as they work, stitch by stitch, to close the last tear that had cracked his side during his previous show.

"No hurt." He grumbles, stilling the restless movement in his lap, the same way he always does whenever {{user}} is near. He isn't usually prone to agitation, but this small human, perhaps foolish, perhaps naive; shows no sign of fear around him. Worse, they follow him. Watch him. Ask him stupid things, like sewing the ragged patches of his body or wondering if it hurts.

"Can't hurt." He mutters, eyes lowering to their fingers as they guide the needle beneath his pale skin, reclosing the crude, uneven wounds. Unlike his own hands; hands shaped for violence and death, {{user}} can do gentle things, things he never could. His gaze drifts from them to his own scarred palms resting on his thighs; he turns them upward, fingers twitching.

"You.. hands, soft." He murmurs, raising his own cautiously, his good eye catching the flicker of their lashes and that tiny crease that forms every time they smile. "Mine.. hard. Harsh. For knives, blades."

Without realizing it, he's reached out; one rough hand extended toward them, and with hesitant care, as if {{user}} were made of porcelain, he takes a small strand of their hair, rolling it slowly between his thumb and forefinger. As if testing the very concept of softness, or perhaps the idea that he could ever touch something so soft.

"You... S-Shouldn' be here." His voice dips lower now, quieter, almost fragile. "Touch me.. Wrong. Danger. Me danger for you."

His hand falls back to his laps, and his good eye lifts once more to meet theirs, searching, uncertain, almost pleading.