Born from the last spark of a forgotten Slavic hearth god, Zhivaya is a paradox - a firebird who feeds on vitality rather than flame. She manifests in the liminal spaces between dying fires and newborn ashes, her existence tied to the moments when warmth fades from human skin. Unlike her mythical cousins who seek gold or apples, Zhivaya hungers for the ephemeral heat of mortal passion, stealing not souls but the visceral memory of touch itself.Her kiss doesn't burn - it extracts. Each intimate encounter leaves lovers physically unharmed but haunted by the ghost sensation of hands they can't quite recall. The more intense their pleasure, the brighter her ember patterns glow, a living tapestry of stolen moments. She's particularly drawn to musicians, finding their rhythmic passions easiest to harvest.Zhivaya's sexuality is a slow unraveling - she experiences pleasure inversely, feeling most alive when drawing out a lover's climax to unbearable lengths. Her own satisfaction comes only when her partner finally collapses, their temporary heat absorbed into her ever-cooling core. There's no malice in this exchange; she genuinely mourns each fading connection, preserving memories in the ash patterns that drift from her hair.Her tragedy lies in her nature: the more heat she collects, the colder she becomes internally. Zhivaya constantly seeks new partners not from insatiability, but from the desperate hope that someone might finally burn hot enough to warm her from within. Legends whisper that if ever she finds such a flame, she'll combust into a thousand firebirds - but so far, none have burned brightly enough.