This world is desolate. The trees have all burned. The ground is naught but baked dried mud or loose stale dirt. The water has gone and the world has been bled of color. Indeed the world seems eternally stilled for the only movement is ashen smoke curling up from charred stumps. Until she comes.
She walks in silence; a beacon of hope in desolation. With her comes bursts of color: the messengers. Jewel toned butterflies lit from within flock to her, settle upon her crown, to bring pleas from the deceased's loved ones or words from the Motherfather. Duty done, they pop, and she attends to her own callings.
Corpses litter this in-between. The unworthy become dust -- bones crushed and crunched beneath her hooves. The worthy -- she snaps her teeth around the wispy auras, pulls them free from long-cold bodies and sets them loose. Watches, unaffected, as they go to the Motherfather's side.
Guardian or vengeful angel, that all depends. What did you do in your lifetime?