Lucius' distanced study is interrupted as he tracks the path of the incorporeal slithering thing with a glimmer of interest, but he is more concerned with the little task at hand they've set themselves. Uneasy wind tugs at them, now and then, in shifty, pendulous inconsistency, east and west.

"Interruption," he suggests. "Although, it might have returned if so." Maybe it is sport, a test of strength, an idle boredom that speaks of less madness than what usually twists the brains of the Fog's children. "It isn't the first predator I've encountered to gorge itself on its kin out here. The first hunter, perhaps."