You meet Death and she's 5'3. She smokes cigarettes and her glasses are always dirty because "What? You think this scythe is for souls?". She cuts the hay in the fields by hand to calm her nerves. Her hair is braided and tied with bailing twine and ripped plastic bags and fishing line lost in trees. Some people help her with the feeding and the bedding and the watering and the mucking and the tilling and the patching and the cutting and the loading and the stacking. Most don't.










