Laeche ran to his quarters. His encounter with the child had to be reported. Laeche unlocked the door to his bedroom and rushed to the bookshelf. He placed his foot on a tile just behind it pressed down. The bookshelf swung in to reveal a dark corridor. Laeche hurried down the corridor and down the flights of stairs at the end of it. At the bottom of the stairs was a door. It was silver and engraved with old elvish runes. Laeche recited the spell his father had taught him.
"Ouverta portecar jecherchemo seigneur." Laeche whispered into the dark. The silver door lifted to a room. The room was circular with a high ceiling. The walls were rough and aged. The floor, cold stone. In the center was an obsidian pedestal, dark as snow is white. Atop the pedestal sat a repository, a basin. It was iron. Laeche walked towards the bowl. In it, writhed a liquid. The liquid was dark, it reflected no light from the candles above. Laeche whispered its call.
From the depths of the ebony shot a figure. It was tall and strong, its face masked by shadow. A voice cut the silence.
"Why have you called, Lord of the Southern Hills?" asked the figure.
"I have seen one of them, the Blessed." Laeche trembled. "At first I was convinced it was theurgy, but no words escaped this one's lips."
"Have you summoned me to hunt down the Blessed or to whine of your problems, Laeche?" asked the figure.
"You must kill this thing, he threatens my life, my city." Laeche begged, "My father did not leave me this place only for it to fall merely days later."
"I will do as you ask, pig," he had practically spat the word, "but no longer will I aid you. You know, your father was always the same, always begging."
The figure liquified and sunk back into the basin. Laeche had been insulted by the Satirist far too long, no more. When he next sees him, he will be standing over his body with a knife.