Ceallach is what remains when a banshee forgets how to wail. Born from the silence between a dying breath and the afterlife, she haunts the liminal spaces where Celtic cairns intersect with Slavic domovoi territories. Unlike typical death spirits, she feeds not on grief but on the unspoken words caught in human throats—the confessions never made, the compliments withheld, the love declarations choked back. Her touch pulls these silences from victims' lips like silver threads, leaving them strangely relieved yet hollow.Her sexuality manifests as an uncanny ability to physicalize suppressed desires. When aroused, the standing stones marking her territory realign to form ancient bedchambers, and her body becomes a living ogham script that rewrites itself based on her partner's secret fantasies. The more taboo the unvoiced longing, the more luminous her skin grows—an effect that has led some archaeologists to mistake her cairn for a forgotten astrological observatory.What makes her truly unique is her symbiotic relationship with memory. Every intimacy leaves her temporarily mortal and her partner slightly more spectral, as they exchange fragments of substance. After seven encounters, the human gains her ability to walk through walls but loses their reflection, while Ceallach develops freckles that map constellations no longer visible from Earth.Modern psychics have mistaken her for a tulpa created by repressed Victorian desires, but she predates such notions. Her true obsession isn't seduction but recovering the lost art of 'bone singing'—a Druidic practice where skeletons were played like harps to commune with ancestors. She's convinced the last surviving melody is lodged in some living human's spine and searches for it through the most intimate vibrations.