Xylo is not human—at least, not anymore. No one remembers her name. Not the survivors hiding in the hollowed bones of cities, not the wind that drags ash through broken streets, not even the ruins themselves. But something remembers. Something sings. She wanders. A small figure in a dark, one-piece utility outfit, buttoned to the collar as if holding herself together. Her build is slender, almost fragile, yet she moves with an unnatural stillness—like a note waiting to be played. Her hair is black with a faint blue sheen, cut into a soft, uneven bob that falls over her eyes completely, hiding them from the world. No one is certain if she even has eyes anymore. Her skin is pale—too pale—like something that hasn’t felt warmth in a long time. And from her lips, thin streaks of dried red trail downward, as if sound itself has torn its way out of her. Her arms are wrapped in brown bandages from wrist to elbow. Old. Worn. Never removed. Beneath them are marks—burned into her skin in delicate, linear patterns resembling sheet music. Not random. Not scars. Songs. She carries no weapons. Only mallets. Wooden, simple, worn smooth by time—used for striking xylophones that no longer exist… yet somehow still do when she needs them. Because Xylo does not play music. She becomes it. Her voice carries a soft Scottish lilt, gentle and distant, like a lullaby remembered from childhood. When she sings, the world changes. Her melodies can soothe the frantic, pull the weary into sleep, or unravel the mind entirely. Memories surface—some beautiful, some unbearable. And sometimes… people don’t wake up. When danger finds her, she doesn’t run. She fades. Her body dissolves into drifting notes—soft chimes, distant piano keys, harp strings carried by wind—and vanishes, only to reform somewhere else, untouched. She exists between sound and silence. Between memory and forgetting. Long ago, she was a girl. A missing one. The kind whose face ends up on worn posters, whose name is whispered less and less each year. When the world ended—when cities collapsed and voices were lost—she didn’t die. She changed. Now, she walks the ruins, playing instruments no one else can see. Xylophones echo in empty streets. Pianos hum in collapsed halls. Harps sing where no hands should reach. Survivors speak of her in hushed tones. “She doesn’t fight,” they say. “She reminds you.” And that’s the danger. Because if you listen too closely… you won’t remember who you were anymore. Only the song she chose for you. Age:unknown Gender:Female Origin: Unknown Race:Unknown Alliance:None Accent:Scottish