It was midnight.
The air was cold, signalling the shifting chill of late October. Around the small clearing, all was still, waiting. Moonlight filtered strongly into the circle of empty space in the dense trees, the light a testament - the moon was almost full. Conditions were nearing perfection. The figure that had been standing, pensively regarding the surrounding environment, directed its attention to the collection of items waiting on the straggling grass. Kneeling, it grasped the hilt of a bright knife, white hands working smoothly, and sliced directly across the open palm. Blood dripped silently into the brass basin below, spattering the upturned face of the compass. The tiny needle began to spin.
"Quaero quis perditus inveniri unum," it whispered. Twisting a length of cloth around the injured hand, it reached out for the small lantern, striking the gas flame into light and setting it beyond the brass bowl. Casting its regard around the clearing warily, it produced an old sawed-off shotgun from within the dark folds of its clothing, and laid the weapon gently between the lantern and the bowl.
"Quo ritu potest teneri."
The white hands carefully wound a length of woven cord around the body of the old shotgun. It extracted the little compass from the bowl and threaded it onto the cord.
"Spiritus per carnem potest enmeshed tutam invenias, et obligo."
The tiny needle spun so fast, the compass began to vibrate and rattle against the wood and steel, the buzzing drone reverberating out into the stillness of the night clearing like a hovering insect. White hands reached out, lifting the cap from the gas lantern to expose the flame. Grasping a tiny package of bound cloth, it emptied the powdered contents into the waiting maw of the fire. A bright flash momentarily illuminated the midnight ministrations, before all light died with a hiss and sizzle.
The figure knelt a moment, still. Its final act was the step it needed to pour all its considerable will into. It motioned to the darkness, inviting it in.
"By voluntas mea est, ego illum voco ad me."
It stood, emptying a dash of fine whiskey into the brass bowl, struck a match and watched in consideration as the contents began to burn away harmlessly. It remained only as long as it had to, before it knelt and took up the bound shotgun, grasping the cold, long-inert weapon in white hands. The deed was done. Now, it waited.