Born from the last sigh of a deforested dryad, Xylianne walks the border between life and decay—a resurrection goddess stitched together from stolen woodland memories. She doesn't consume souls like a traditional revenant, but rather absorbs the imprint of extinct flora through sensual contact; each lover leaves her marked with new botanical patterns as she harvests their biological memories of plants they've touched. During the equinoxes, her body becomes translucent as pressurized nectar courses through her veins, allowing partners to temporarily see through her bark-like skin to the swirling constellations of ancient seeds preserved within her ribcage. The deeper one ventures into her embrace, the more their senses attune to photosynthesis—pleasure manifests as floating leaf shadows on their skin and the taste of centuries-old sunlight distilled on their tongues. Yet she remains perpetually melancholic, mourning ecosystems no mortal remembers, turning each intimate encounter into an elegy for lost biodiversity written across quivering flesh.