It was a rather solemn breakfast. Prometheus sat on a chair so posh that it would be more accurate to call it a throne. Before him stood a dining table that appeared to have been carved from a singular tree trunk. Around the table was chairs with carvings of fabulous creatures from those with wings and claws to those armed with enough firepower to blow a hole through the crust. Above the dining table was a chandelier made of twisting branches arranged in such a way to resemble antlers. Candles that never drip lit by flames that never die perched on the tips.

On the table was a breakfast fit for a king. Vegetables, steamed rice, and saucy meat were served on exquisite chinaware, and were to be eaten with mithril silverware. The pitcher and glass that held Prometheus' drink bore gorgeous landscapes only expressed in silver lines etched into their crystalline glass. Yet with all this wondrous breakfast set before him, Prometheus hesitated, merely gazing upon their hypothetical wonder to the mouth; his food remained untouched.

He looked into one corner of the room. In the corner was his dog-headed cockroach, Fodder, loudly eating its breakfast. Fodder ate sitting on floor, and from a dog bowl with its name emblazoned upon it with golden letters. It ate a mush of what might be a disgusting mush of decomposing fish matter only Fodder's kind could ever tolerate, or in Fodder's case, like. It's one of the reasons of why Fodder did not sit on the table to eat for its food could cause one to lose consciousness from the stink alone; the other being that the seats were for lords, knights, and guests, not for a simple serf such as Fodder.

Upon seeing that its master is observing it, Fodder placed the bowl on the floor, and began eating from it like a dog would. Prometheus only sighed from the sight.

"Fodder," Prometheus began. "I have a task for you."

"What is it that you need me to do, Master Prometheus?" Fodder paused eating.

"I need you to make this." Prometheus procured a sheet from his rain robe. On it was a magic circle. The poor drawing featured an egg-shaped circle, shaky lines, and uneven divisions. On the side were quatrains to be chanted before said circle.

Fodder wiped its hands on its fur to keep the fish remains from dirtying the sheet being handled to it. "I will gladly do it right now, Master Prometheus."

Fodder left the dining room, and entered to its workshop. It was a meager room devoid of sunlit windows. Retrieving a box of chalk among its tools, it began to draw a perfect circle on the floor with lines that divided said circle to even sections, and small nodes that bisected the lines.

Candles made of paraffin and beeswax were lit around the room, providing the perfect atmosphere for the ritual. Fodder began the chant: two quatrains, four lines each, eight lines in total.

After each succeeding syllable it spoke, the chalk shone with silvery unholy light, each line caused one node to flare, and each stanza burned the will of its author onto the magic of the circle. Upon finishing the poem its master had authored, the whole circle exploded with light, and the temporarily turned into a mirror. A bronze head of a dragon rose from the glass, soon to be followed by its neck, but not the body. The metal beast was stiff, lifeless, but the emerald eyes it bore suggested otherwise with a sea of pure green that threatened to spill with fervor and flood the world with its cleansing poison.

The Devourer will be shaken.