Day 29: Waxing crescent day one.

Snickt.

Shnickt. The tiny click of closing shears filled the small workshop where The Craftsman bent over his bench working on his latest creation.

It was a simple thing, hardly more than a trinket really. Made of scraps left behind from other works. But it was beautiful.

Maddeningly so.

The leather had been prime quality, as pale as a moonbeam and thin as a moth's wing. It had been harvested under the light of a full moon on the plain below the asylum.Then it was tanned in chemical bath to make it supple. And finally it had been laid to cure on a moonless night.

As dawn arrived the single lamp that lit the bench began to gutter, but still the Craftsman labored on.

Shnickt.

Snickt.

Day 35: First Quarter.

The moon was high again shining its pale light through the workshop window when a tap came on The Craftsman's door.

He was bent again over his project. It took time after all to shape and form the delicate skins to suit the images in his madman's mind.

He left his bench reluctantly, answering the summons.

He cackled when he read the note the visitor left him.

Day 43: Full Moon.

The visitors note had been very specific. The meeting took place on the night of the full moon, in an abandoned farmstead not far from The Craftsman's own hut.

Perfection rested in a pouch at The Craftsman's hip, wrapped in silk.

"Have you brought the crown's you promised?" The craftsman's voice cracked, dry from disuse.

"Have you brought the item for our little experiment?" The voice of the cloaked and hooded Stranger was clipped and unnaturally cold.

The craftsman drew Perfection forth, unwrapping the silk and displaying it out on an old overturned barrel. It was a poor table for his artwork, but it would have to suffice.

" A thing of beauty." The cold voice stated.

Clunk.

A heavy pouch of coin now graced the barrel head beside Perfection.

The Stranger drew a strange gem from the deep folds of the cloak, held it to the moon and shone its light down on the circlet. There was a bright flash and then The Stranger hid the gem from view again.

The craftsman thought it was impossible to improve upon Perfection, but The Stranger had done just that. The circlet now seemed to gleam faintly with the light of the moon.

When it was done the circlet was once again wrapped in silk, carried away by The Stranger.

The Craftsman returned to his hut, richer in coin but feeling somehow hollow.

Day 51: Last Quarter.

Six days had passed since The Stranger had graced her bed.

Six days since He had abandoned her leaving behind his silly trifle.

The first day she had admired the thing. It was beautiful. The envy of the other denizens of the brothel.

The second day she began to notice the covetous stares had increased. She slipped out to the market and bought herself a strongbox.

The third day she had locked herself in her room. The knot on the trifle would not release, no matter how she tried. She swore the others were watching her, plotting how to cut it from her throat ? or perhaps how to cut her throat from it.

The fourth day she paced sleepless before the doors of her room, waiting for them to come.

The fifth day she had grown tired of waiting. She would get them, before they could get her.

The sixth dawned in blood. She'd gotten them all while they slept in their beds. She sat upon the corpse of the last of them, the tiny girl who scrubbed the kitchen pots, giggling.

Six days had passed.

Six days. Maybe she would go see Him again.

Six days.

Day 58: New moon.

It was a puzzle the watch had no clues to solve. Fifteen corpses found in three days.

Each drained of blood, missing only a small piece of skin at the throat. A piece carefully cut out in the shape of a butterfly.

Each so cold. Almost unnaturally so.