Story of his life.

This is the story. A ranger stepped onto the ground. Now this wasn't any old kind of ground like we're used to stepping on because this ground had thick, bulbous weeds growing like uprooted grass that's pulled from the ground like laid wire. But these big things pulled their own roots from the ground to churn the soil, so that their smaller roots could take further hold of the ground and move deeper to assure the home of this plant and its seed. Only nobody particularly wanted this plant around. Many of its kind choke flowers and other decoratives, who tend to have a more delicate speed of living.
The ranger had stepped on this kind of ground, in fact, for most of his life. When he was just newborn, he was only allowed to walk on sand. He was an adept baby and walked on sand quite well, even for a ranger. But to get bogged down in his history for now would only bore you, because at the very moment I speak, he steps. Once more.

And again. Stops. The ground squiggles under his feet. It tries to grow on him. No such luck. Something in the ranger thought of processed meat. The strange foot had calloused, like any good ranger's foot. The foot's strange to an average person, and it's strange to the grass. Waiting, is he, the grass might have begun to think. Taking him long enough. But if the grass knew the mind of a ranger, it would not be grass. The ranger darts, ditches, dares, stares, and kills.