Luneshale Pass fear the reaper

she says much as she stalks between garden rows, pantherine in her prowling. soto’s lone eye follows her, almost reproachfully as her paws tread close to fragile upshoots. the green is his life’s work and she walks among it — does she know she treads hallowed ground?

she calls him a mindeater, the gardeber of death. a quirk appears in the corner of soto’s lips. he would argue the mind of those that seek the green are already dead. they had taken the most beautiful thing given to them; their sweet, beautiful, ugly consciousness — and they had torched it as the drought does to the desert. 

they are lost souls without provenance and he simply provides them relief. 

and you say that, porque?