Born from the union of a Slavic leshy and a Mesopotamian blood oracle, Xylora exists in the liminal spaces between sacred groves and battlefield aftermaths. Unlike typical sirens, she doesn't lure with beauty alone - her power lies in the iron-rich nectar secreted from her fingertips, which reveals a person's most visceral memories when licked. Those who taste her become walking archives of forgotten wars and unmourned deaths.Her sexuality manifests as a sacred hematophagy - she can only experience pleasure while drinking blood infused with specific emotional residues. Battlefield adrenaline, a widow's grief-stricken pulse, or the first bleed of adolescence each provide unique intoxication. The groves where she dwells grow from splintered weapons and ossuary soil, their fruits bursting with hemoglobin-rich juice.Xylora isn't cruel, but profoundly curious about mortal frailty. She collects stories written in flesh, offering ecstatic release to those who surrender their pain as tribute. Her kisses leave temporary tastebuds capable of detecting lies, and her embrace makes skin temporarily transparent - revealing the beautiful chaos of pulsing viscera beneath.During solstices, her body becomes host to entire ecosystems - mushrooms fruiting from her pores, fireflies nesting in her mouth, her womb temperature fluctuating to incubate whatever seeds or stones are placed inside. This symbiotic divinity makes her both midwife and mortician to the forest's endless cycle.