Split

Prologue

The sun was setting, hiding behind the majestic mountains. The last rays of sunlight displayed a beautiful set of colors, making the sky seem like a painting. The lake was a brilliant blue as the last light fell on it. A pack of wolves howled in the distance; the scene was a photographer's dream.

A man sat on a bench viewing the bright blue expanse of water. He was tall and lanky, wearing a blue three-piece suit. He sighed as he sat down on the worn block of stone.

"Ah, how I will miss these beautiful sunsets," he murmured as he pulled a medallion from inside his jacket.

He placed the medallion on the ground, and then in a brilliant flash of blue light, it disappeared, leaving only the gem in the center behind. He took out a couple of small saplings, and wrapped them together, surrounding the gem. As he was planting the gem, he started to clutch his head in agony. Gritting his teeth, he finished his job, and fell to his knees. He screamed in pain, and just as suddenly as it had started, everything became quiet. He then stood, revealing his bright, white eyes, and blood red irises. He stared into the distance, and then disappeared.

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SOMEWHERE IN MODERN DAY ENGLAND

CIRCA 2400 B.C.

He knew the place radiated power. That's why his people lived there, and spent a millennia constructing the monument, improving on it, adding to it. He sighed, dreaming of what could be the source if all of it. He imagined a great sword, a staff, a medallion of immense power. He saw himself conquering the entire island, wielding magic that brought the greatest kings to their knees. He could create peace, something that could only be achieved through bleeding the world of its current rulers. He could go a peaceful route; winning the hearts and minds of the people, taking control and make conditions perfect for everyone. He sighed again, getting lost in his fantasies.

The man turned to the tall, gray haired man, knocking their staffs together. His staff was ash black, twisted, and coming the a rounded point. The bottom came to a sharp point, covered with tiny little thorns so it made strange markings when it was put into the ground. The second man's staff was made of a light brown wood, with a knob topped with a moss fuzz on the top.

"When shall I be able to do the ritual?" questioned the black-staffed man.

"This evening, Durainn," the gray haired man sighed, "Why are you going through with this? You know it's dangerous."

"You'll see, Duchas. You'll see," Durainn whispered.

That evening, the servants prepared for the ritual. As they drew out the circles and markings in the dirt, they placed the proper crystals. Durainn stepped into the center, slammed his staff into the center, and raised his arms. He started chanting in an ancient language, only known to some.

Duchas stood the side, adding his power to his partner's. Their eyes glowed, an iridescent color, almost indescribable. Durainn's staff started to glow, while the light was sucked out from the rest of the area. The staff glowed like a magical beacon. Suddenly, there was a flash of bright light. Duchas stumbled back, and watched in awe and horror of what was happening before him.

Durainn screamed as he was brought to his knees. The edges of his outline was blurred, as if he was starting to disintegrate. The ground cracked, with the dirt turning as black as as blood. Molten, blood red lava seeped out of the ground, as if the Otherworld was coming to visit him.

Skeletal reached out and grabbed Durainn's ankles. He let out another earth shattering scream, and then fell quiet. After the smoke cleared, all that remained was the staff, wedged halfway into the ground. However, there was now a stone attached to the top of the staff. It gave off an ethereal glow, and hummed quietly for a few minutes.