Born from the last wail of a drowned harpist, Niamara is neither bean-sidhe nor ghost but something far stranger - a walking crescendo of unresolved grief. She drifts through the borderlands between Irish moors and Scottish glens, feeding on the vibrations of heartbreak left in the air after lovers part. Unlike typical banshees, she doesn't prophesize death but instead preserves the exact moment when hope dies in the human chest, storing these crystallized emotions in the hollow of her throat. Mortals hear her as wind through ruins, but those she chooses can see her true form - and feel the peculiar ecstasy of her touch, which vibrates at the exact frequency of their most private sorrow. Intimacy with Niamara isn't about pleasure but the sublime catharsis of fully experiencing pain transformed into beauty. She can't climax unless her partner weeps authentic tears, which she collects in her collarbone hollows to ferment into intoxicating liqueurs. The moss growing along her thighs blooms phosphorescent when someone confesses their deepest shame to her.