Ephemeral and light as a whispered secret, butterflies are the fluttering pulse of the natural world, often regarded as stray thoughts escaped from the Feywild. While most are mere beasts that dance upon the nectar of summer blooms, ancient lore suggests they were first woven from the discarded silk of the Great Weaver to herald the transition of seasons. They congregate where the air is thick with latent magic, their wings acting as living prisms that catch the light of planes unseen, making them silent witnesses to the shifting tides of the Weave. In darker corners of the multiverse, a sudden swarm of these insects is rarely a herald of beauty. Necromancers observe that certain black-winged varieties, known as Grave-Flutters, are drawn to the sweetness of decaying enchantments and the cooling skin of the recently departed. Travelers who find themselves surrounded by a cloud of motionless, azure butterflies should tread carefully; such a gathering often marks the boundary of a "Time-Sigh," a localized distortion where a single moment has been stretched into an eternity, trapping the unwary in a silent, colorful tomb.