WA-2 Draft 3

Carl killed him. Not kindly, not quickly, just killed him. The pools of blood slowly sunk into the ground, and a pink mist lay still in the air. The red water dropped like a fish net in the lake. A wall, an insurmountable barrier with memories of death swirling in the suddenly still water. The elder fish knew Carl. They knew his cruelty, his stubborness. The younger fish knew of him. They knew what had been told, the stories, the long kept secrets. They feared him, but they did not understand him. The elders knew what had shaped Carl. His shell covered his spiked haunches and back, like a newly ordained monk. It held unspeakable things. Horrors so ancient that many of the legends had warped the old minds of the hosts. He now was sitting in a small pool of his victim's blood; admiring its feel, like thick, scarlet, butter that had been heated just enough to melt. Small rain droplets began to patter loudly around the lilly pads on the lake, diluting Carl's little pool. In frustration, he beat the ground with his small paws, causing little pockets of water to hydroplane outwards. His actions were those of a small child's as his playground of death became obscured from the dying sun's rays. Suddenly, he summoned with a nod a small frog who had been staring intently, to come forward. Amidst cries of woe from his community, the little one shuffled across the grass to the infernal being in front of him. "Come, little one. Do not be frightened." whispered Carl loudly, over the rain. "I am not afraid of you, oh tyrant. For if I was, then I should be quaking from tongue, to tail." answered the tiny amphibian. "Hah Hah Hah," laughed Carl. "You are brave for your size. Let us see if you can sing as well as you can speak." The small one looked terrorized, but Carl didn't notice. He was preparing to sing. Carl started off on a folk song from the place that he was born. After a while, he stopped singing, and focused on the little frog. "Now you try. "I...I can't." The little frog looked into Carl's fiery eyes and saw himself. He saw what was, what is, and what could have been had fate not taken his life. He fell to the blood stained grass before anyone knew that he was dead. And so it had been for years and years. A Time so long that many of the elder fish had forgotten what life was like before Carl became their deadly dictator. A soft sigh of grief escaped the animals that had assembled to hear Carl sing. The fish in the lake swam sadly back to their solitary lives. The rest of the frogs looked away as Carl devoured his prey. Stories would be told. This day would be remembered. But many would soon forget. The tales would warp old fish’s minds. Insanity would be nailed over a more sensible floor. But someone, somewhere, would retain a fragment, a small strand of hope, of reason, that would lead them away. Away from their home, and their life of misery. Away from the blood lust that killed their friends, their family, and their sanity. Where is this place? Where none kill each other? It is easy to find. But you must kill Carl, the Scarlet Butter frog with your bare hands. He must die. A poisoned mouse, or a beheaded chicken. It is FATE's path, but in your hands.

WA-2 Draft 2

Carl killed him. Not kindly, not quickly, just killed him. The pools of blood slowly sunk into the ground, and a pink mist lay still in the air. The red water dropped like a fish net in the lake. A wall, an insurmountable barrier with memories of death swirling in the suddenly still water. The elder fish knew Carl. They knew his cruelty, his stubborness. The younger fish knew of him. They knew what had been told, the stories, the long kept secrets. They feared him, but they did not understand him. The elders knew what had shaped Carl. His shell covered his spiked haunches and back, like a newly ordained monk. It held unspeakable things. Horrors so ancient that many of the legends had warped the old minds of the hosts.
He now was sitting in a small pool of his victim's blood. Admiring its feel, like thick, scarlet, butter that had been heated just enough to melt. Small rain droplets began to patter loudly around the lilly pads on the lake, diluting Carl's little pool. In frustration, he beat the ground with his small paws, causing little pockets of water to hydroplane outwards. His actions were those of a small child's as his playground of death became obscured from the dying sun's rays. Suddenly, he summoned with a nod a small frog who had been staring intently, to come forward. Amidst cries of woe from his community, the little one shuffled across the grass to the infernal being in front of him."Come, little one. Do not be frightened." whispered Carl loudly, over the rain."I am not afraid of you, oh tyrant. For if I was, then I should be quaking from tongue, to tail." answered the tiny amphibian."Hah Hah Hah," laughed Carl. "You are brave for your size. Let us see if you can sing as well as you can speak." The small one looked terrorized, but Carl didn't notice. He was preparing to sing.Carl started off on a folk song from the place that he was born. After a while, he stopped singing, and focused on the little frog."Now you try.""I...I can't." The little frog looked into Carl's fiery eyes and saw himself. He saw what was, what is, and what could have been had fate not taken his life. He fell to the blood stained grass before anyone knew that he was dead. And so it had been for years and years. A Time so long that many of the elder fish had forgotten what life was like before Carl became their deadly dictator. A soft sigh of grief escaped the animals that had assembled to hear Carl sing. The fish in the lake swam sadly back to their solitary lives. The rest of the frogs looked away as Carl devoured his prey.
Stories would be told. This day would be remembered. But many would soon forget. The tales would warp old fishes minds. Insanity would be nailed over a more sensible floor. But someone, somewhere, would retain a fragment, a small strand of hope, of reason, that would lead them away. Away from their home, and their life of misery. Away from the blood lust that killed their friends, their family, and their sanity. Where is this place? Where none kill each other? It is easy to find. But you must kill Carl, the Scarlet Butter Turtle with your bare hands. He must die. A poisoned mouse, or a beheaded chicken. It's in FATE's path, but in your hands.

WA-2 Draft 1

Carl killed him. Not nicely, not fast, just killed him. The air was misted with blood, as the pools sunk slowly into the ground. The red water dropped like a fish net in the lake. A wall, an insurmountable barrier with memories of death swirling in the suddenly still water. The elder fish knew Carl. They knew his cruelty, his stubborness. The younger fish knew of him. They knew what had been told, the stories, the long kept secrets. They feared him, but they did not understand him. The elders knew what had shaped Carl. His shell covered his spiked haunches and back, like a newly ordained monk. It held unspeakable things. Horrors so ancient that many of the legends had warped the old minds of the hosts.
He now was sitting in a small pool of his victim's blood. Admiring its feel, like thick, scarlet, butter that had been heated just enough to melt. Small rain droplets began to patter loudly around the lillypads on the lake, diluting Carl's little pool. In frustration, he beat the ground with his small paws, causing little pockets of water to hydroplane outwards. His actions were those of a small child's as his playground of death became obscured from the dying sun's rays of gold. Suddenly, he summoned with a nod a small frog who had been staring intently, to come forward. Amidst cries of woe from his community, the little one shuffled across the grass to the infernal being infront of him.
"Come, little one. Do not be frightened." whispered Carl loudly, over the rain.
"I am not afraid of you, oh tyrant. For if I was, then I should be quaking from tongue, to tail." answered the tiny amphibian.
"Hah Hah Hah," laughed Carl. "You are brave for your size. Let us see if you can sing as well as you can speak." The small one looked terrorized, but Carl didn't notice. He was preparing to sing.
Carl started off on a folk song from the place that he was born. After a while, he stoped singing, and focused on the little frog.
"Now you try."
"I...I can't." The little frog looked into Carl's fiery eyes and saw himself. He saw what was, what is, and what could have been had fate not taken his life. He fell to the blood stained grass before anyone knew that he was dead. A soft sigh of grief escaped the animals that had assembled to hear Carl sing. The fish in the lake swam sadly back to their solitary lives. The rest of the frogs looked away as Carl devoured his prey.
Stories would be told. This day would be remembered. But many would soon forget. The tales would warp old fishes minds. Insanity would be nailed over a more sensible floor. But someone, somewhere, would retain a fragment, a small strand of hope, of reason, that would lead them away. Away from their home, and their life of misery. Away from the blood lust that killed their friends, their family, and their sanity. Where is this place? Where none kill each other? It is easy to find. But you must kill Carl, the Scarlet Butter Turtle with your bare hands. He must die. A poisoned mouse, or a beheaded chicken. It's in FATE's hands.