Emet-Selch looks at the dazzling array of butterflies around them. They dance through the air with wings of white that almost seem to make them glow in the dim of twilight. "The existence of all things is fleeting." He comments before looking back to his young charge and narrowing his eyes.

Something is wrong. And as he looks at his and sees the fainted sprinkle of white, it becomes obvious what it is. As if the mannerisms weren't indicative enough. The affliction is consuming him.

"Who asked that you show this to me?"