Foster manages to look vaguely startled--not because he didn't make sense, which is really what he expects out of everything that comes out of his mouth, but at the somewhat mundane revelation that Syrlya is not only familiar with necromancy but friendly with its practitioners.

"I didn't take you for the type," Foster replies, a little more cautiously. Aren't plants--greenery--associated with life? Even the fae, he's been learning, see them as such. Which... confirms, to him, the truth he has already known.

Death, and for that matter the abomination of undeath, are antithetical powers to the living, but bound up with each other immutably and inevitably. The powers of growth and decay are connected by the very force that opposes them.

Which would make Syrlya's friendliness with necromancers seem less aberrant, but you still can't use a live plant to raise the dead. Even a funeral lily must first be cut for the ritual.

Red and green magic are much the same.

"I have... a purpose, but no means--no acceptable, haha... no acceptable means to achieve it."

He tilts his head, averting his eyes in what is either self-deprecation or disgust.

"I am... too limited by my frame of reference."