The last rays of light filtered in through a small high window, into the musty cottage. The walls were covered with shelves lined with oddly shaped jars and bottles, mysteriously labeled in a foreign looking alphabet. Strange stuffed creatures dangled from the ceiling from cords. There was a large fireplace in the center of one wall, a steaming cauldron suspended over a fire that had died down to mostly glowing coals. In the center of the room was a large wooden worktable. A small balding old man sat hunched over a leather bound old tome, his long, wispy, white hair flowing down his back. He muttered to himself as he turned the pages slowly, the yellowish nails of his fingers following each line of text, searching for the last part of the spell. A candle flickered at the corner of the table and it was starting to sputter as the liquid wax threatened to engulf the wick. The spell he was looking for was hidden though out the text in code, a frightfully tedious task, but well worth the effort. The candle suddenly went out and darkness dropped over the old man like a cloak. He mumbled a half-hearted curse and began digging through the pockets of the coarse homespun robe he was wearing. Pulling out a carved and shaped crystal, he held it up to his wrinkled face and whispered to it. A few seconds later, it began glowing with a soft, bluish light. He stood up and took two steps to the shelf behind him. He took a fresh candle down and turned back to the table. Squashing the new candle onto the remnants of the last, he waited until the candle stood on its own, and then took out a wooden match. Striking it on the top of the table, the match flared to life and he touched the tip to the wick. Satisfied, he sat back down and resumed his search. Hours later, a loud banging at the door startled him. Getting up, he hobbled over to the door, his face appearing as a mask of elderly gentility. He cracked the door open, and seeing who it was, straightened up and glared at the two men standing there. "Get in here, quick," he growled at them. They hastily came inside, their long black coats dripping. "Get over by that fire, damn you," the old man told them. "You didn't get it yet, did you?" he asked them. They hung their heads sheepishly. They didn't dare whine or make excuses. "I didn't think so. Stay here tonight, and you can try again on the morrow." The two men took off their coats and hung them by the fire. They were twins, identical except for the scar across the left eye of the elder. They were tall men, standing over six feet tall. Both had long, thick black hair tied back with cords. In many cases, the personalities of twins tended to be polar opposites, however these two had nearly identical personalities as well. Ugly, vicious, violent personalities. Victor was the elder by several minutes, and Vincent the younger. Their mother had died in childbirth, and her father, a strange dark man had taken them in and raised them. They lay down in front of the fire and slept. They would get the gunungapi stone or die trying.

Click here to go to chapter 3