Aeneas tracked through the shadow with his belly low to the ground and his snout rooting for scent. Any scent. The Irraka was learning the lay of the land, its health, and its spirits from the spore they left behind. He was in Urshul, a powerful form that let him surge across the Shadow cityscape with its murky imprint of houses and the hollow, echoing, void of industrial lots.
Here, he passed an old family car, loving past down the generations. It gleamed, stood tall like a haughty animal or proud warrior. He heeded it not.
Here, he passed a street light on its corner - a spot that was unreal in its solidity and thick with the scent of blood and tears. Someone had died on that corner and the emotion of their memoriam had stained the place as surely as cartload of horse manure. Wrinkling his noise in distaste, the Mennina ploughed on.
The Irraka was scouting the Shadow, it is true, but there was a purpose to his foray into the spirit realm. Aeneas had not liked what the spider spirits had said; he had not liked watching them feed so easily on mortal flesh. Somewhere out there was a verge (at best) or a hole in the Gauntlet big enough for one of the herd to stray through.
Either way, he had to know; Falcon the All-Seeing had to know.