Shatha-Dahn, the Viridian Sorceror, donned his finest robes. He then emplaced his mirror-polished pectoral and his spell-gauntlets, and took up his glyphed wand, topped with a single huge ruby. He removed the lid of the massive bronze pot, empressed deeply with curving, spiraling glyphs. Gazing within, he beheld the seething crimson stew, made from the entrails of lions stretched so thin that they became liquid, and mixed with shredded ghostshriek mushrooms from the Forest of Night. The devil-stew was coming to a good hot boil.
He went to the heavy iron table and selected three instruments- there was the disc made of floating fragments, through which glowed mysterious energy; a smoky, square glass pane; a crystal hammer. He took these to the pot. He opened his mouth and spoke the Sacred Verse of Djaki- the words became glowing, echoing, buzzing streams of syllables which swirled through the air, forming little eddies and drifting clouds around Shatha-Dahn.
The Sorceror rolled back his sleeves and took up the glowing disc. This he used as a fan, waving it slowly, sending glowing streams of power which brushed the flitting words slowly but surely drifting into the foully-smelling stew, releasing shuddering tones as they sank into it.
Shatha-Dahn then took up the glass pane and held it over the stew. Thin, purplish fumes rose from the bubbling surface, and as they did, Shatha-Dahn spoke a single loud, vibrant word, the Ahndatic Power-Word. The glass slowly tinged smoky purple. He emplaced it in the Wonderous Lightning Clamps, where it was held by buzzing electric tendrils. Then, taking hammer in one hand and wand in the other, he struck the pane smartly but delicately in the center.
The tones of the shattering glass seemed to reverberate onward and onward and onward into infinity, louder and louder, eclipsing all other sounds and senses, until Shatha-Dahn's entire world was the breaking of the pane, the splintering of the glass. The sound carried him away, through endless vistas of time, through porticoes upon the tombs of dead gods, through hallways into endless dimensions of the universe, through vast chambers where Old Age and Youth marched like generals at the head of a vast army of all the dead ever gone to dust. Finally, he came to a deep, dark place, at the very tip of the howling vastness at the edges of realness, and there he found the delicate, iridescent bubbles that rose from the floor of nothingness.
He grasped one of these bubbles, every so delicately, and looked into it, and saw the vision which he needed, the bit of information about that blasted meddler who had so wrecked his plans... And then his intense, deep concentration was shattered, shattered as the glass which had taken him to the extremes of prescient vision.
Ah, well. The spell had been successful anyway. Shatha-Dahn went to the dining room to eat a fine meal of smoked spiderflesh served by sub-human apes.