BEGINNING another journey but of a different cord, MENTALITY stalked the shadows of Creation. He was outside Guygale. Observing from the dark. He had observed it all -- his prey's journey here, their engagement in the village. Everything.

  Stalking. Not everyone could do it. He used his mask as a conduit. Doing so allowed him to immerse his body in a thin, hardly imperceptible filament. Such filament rendered him invisible. Perfect for his tasks. Perfect for his needs.

  He could only tread the waters of Creation. Any deeper and he would lose himself. He had learned much at the Royal Academy. Yet, there was always more to do, more to learn.

  Though his prey, by sight alone, appeared far away, as though they were children playing in the woods, dots on the horizon while their mothers watched them return to hearth and home, Zan and his Order Initiates seemed a couple dozen or more paces away.

  This was not true. An illusion. Nothing more.

  Mentality stood as close as he could to Zan's party without burning; radiance emanated from them like torches in the dark. He could not say 'why...' But that was not all which delimited his actions. Treading Creation had side-effects. Invisibility and perfect awareness (of Prey) came with disadvantages. Such as one's own senses dulling. Not relevant, perhaps, while one Treaded Creation. Outside of Walking such shadows, one's dulled senses could mean death. It took hours for his senses to return to what they were before Treading. He had to be strategic, then, with when and for how long he Treaded shadows, if he did not want to spend the next several weeks as an invalid.

  Removing himself from Creation's Waters, he stepped back into objective reality.

  A ringing in his ears preceded his immediately dulled sense of hearing.

  He tested his sense more rigorously. He stomped on the twigs and leafage. He heard. His senses had been muffled, yes, but not overly. He attributed his good fortune to only spending ten minutes within Creation's Waters. Now out, the fresh wind wiping away his heat, he realized he stood mere feet away from the door which had scanned his prey's party inside.

  Carefully, he stepped away.

  He slowly walked around the bunker's perimeter. No windows. No silts. Or none yet anyway. He doubted the bunker would forever remain 'Brutalist without options.' Such a life for an Order's fortification was a drab one, in his opinion. Merely by circling around, however, he imprinted many details about his enemy. Regardless of what it might become in the future, for the time being, the bunker was nothing more than an old building made of so-called 'magicrete,' a substance commonly found in the epochs of past millenniums.

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  "Did I really dull my senses for this?" he asked himself. He found nothing noteworthy beyond those basics he expected to find. Medy-Em residue from a shared puff. He wondered how it would feel, to enjoy herb with friends. From the future: a pang of fate, perhaps, lulling his sharpness. He felt relaxed. He turned back to the residue once the pang ended.

  Had he dulled his sense for this? Arguing with himself, or perhaps one of his 'head mates,' with whom he had heard surprisingly little from, lately, he told himself, "And when else would you do this? When the Order expands and this whole area if filled with guards? Get real. Now is the best time."

  Per the norm, he was right. If he had not done so now, infiltrating and gathering information later, might be severely compromised. Difficult to do, much harder, then if he got it out of the way now...

  "I've seen everything I've needed to see. The sun. The party. Him..."

  He walked from whence he had come. The trail back was uneventful. Almost hypnotic. Faintly familiar to any dozens of similar trails he walked through his life, it was not uncommon for him to see half-familiar memories play out before him. A flower might conjure a time when, as a small child, he showed his mother one such flower. Other times, he would step, only to feel himself reel back in another time and place.

  "Foolish to consider illusions wise," he knew. He knew better than to indulge such fancies for too long. "It's a vacuum," he told himself repeatedly. "These feelings, sensations, are particulate. Iotas of sounds, tastes, and actions already passed." Only that, and nothing more.

  Returned to his hidden encampment surprisingly close to the bunker, a place he knew he would have to abandon soon, the imperial engineer, Rictus Dawson stood sentinel. He turned to greet his superior. "Sir. Looks like your returned without issue. Your associates are out observing. I have not seen them for a long time."

  "That is fine," he informed Rictus.

  Over the last few days, Rictus had acted above his station. He took command of the situation when not directly acting under orders. Which meant he had taken to the domestics of the camp, cooking, cleaning, and washing, with ease unusually benefitting to a macho-man of the Scientific Realms. This made their lives easier, which he appreciated. He would be sure to put in a good word with Rictus's superiors from wherever university or corps he originated.

  Rictus continued: "Unless you will have me man the observation scope longer, I think I will begin on tonight's meal. Will you be joining your associates? I will save space for you regardless. I eat around the campfire, as always."

  What could he say? He didn't have much issue with taking his meals with others. Heaven knew his 'associates,' as Rictus called them, weren't much for conversation these days.

  "I will see how things unfurl. Begin on the domestic, please. I will be contemplating with some Medy-Em..."