From the vapor comes a kaleidoscope of white butterflies.

They erupt from the blooming petals of the daisy field cultivated by her great conjury, broken free from their verdant shackles now that they've been disturbed by a bouncing lilac babe wading through them. The drifting petals gather around him, grabbing at his hide and picking at its hair until it squeals in laughter, ticklish under the onslaught of their tiny hands. They chase and chase and chase until the babe collapses in exhaustion, laughing still as it is pulled under the stormy waves of ivory petals; the butterflies descend upon him until he is no more, the sound of their fluttering wings drowning out his laughter until the valley goes silent, and when they rise to the sky again the only thing that remains is the ashen bones of its rotting corpse.

Wraith throws his head back in a ghastly wail, cold with the fear that they've found him again. The petals fly into its mouth and choke up his throat until it gets harder to breathe with each wheezing gasp, and no matter how violently he tries to cough them back up, they occupy more and more of him until it feels full-up on them and they're bursting from his ribcage like maggots.

Desperate now, he manages one last heaving cough that's strong enough to dislodge the flowers growing in its throat and he sucks in air like it'll never have it again. At his feet, Shrieker stares up at him, its oilslick body peppered with stomach bile and decaying flower petals that it slowly absorbs into itself. Another cough, another flower, and finally the slime grumbles while moving away.

"Good thing you didn't overreact," Shrieker judges from somewhere off to his right.

Wraith clears his throat of flowers and then, as per usual, kicks the slime across the chamber.