• It was growing dark; there was no light besides the dim glow from the red moon. There was barely any wind and the lake was calm.
    Then, form the shadows, a swooping figure appeared, smiling. It was not one that would welcome you from a cold hard night; it was one that looked so dark and fierce, bloodthirsty even. Why was this figure smiling so viciously on a calm night like this?
    This was no ordinary figure.
    This was the Puppeteer.
    This was Cassius.
    He swept across the grass as if he was flying, the grass immediately going luscious green to ashes, he was standing edge to the lake, then, he thrusted his hands up in the air. Suddenly the wind rose and the temperature dropped. The lake was wild and created waves bigger than the mountains; leaves swirled around Cassius and whispered dark messages to his pointed ears. Cassius cackled as crows and rooks and other mysterious birds encircled him, his long hair, blowing in all this madness.
    Out of his cloak, he drew out a marionette, a puppet of what was a spitting image of one John Ashwood. He looked at it like it was the filth of Hell and threw it in the raging lake. It swallowed it like a fox to a mouse. Easily.
    Then the world collapsed. The sound of thunder and the flashes of lightening filled the once so peaceful sky.
    His plan was to begin.
    A life for a life.
    A world and many other lives for a life in Cassius’ case.
    Yes, he had killed this world, but it was not enough. It never had been.
    So, he left the crumbling world.
    Nothing would survive.