Plór na mBan Oisínn (PLOHR nah MAWN uh-SHEEN)

Plór na mBan’s name blooms with layered meaning—“Flower of Women” in its purest form, though later misunderstood in the mortal realm as “Wail of Women.” In Tír na nÓg, where language bends toward truth rather than fear, her name is spoken as a blessing, not a burden. She is a blossoming of her parents’ will—a living answer to the question of beauty’s purpose in a world without sorrow.   She moves like a melody forgotten before its end—light-footed, gold-eyed, always drawn to the edges where mystery gathers. Her laughter is bright, yet never sharp; her silences, rich with wonder. Where others see perfection as stillness, Plór prefers impermanence—petals fluttering from a branch, a mask carved and discarded, a truth glimpsed only briefly before it vanishes into story.   Her gift is transformation. Not through illusion, but through intention. Plór believes the self is meant to shift, to be reimagined. She crafts masks from mirror-sand, driftwood, bone-glass—each one a face, a mood, a memory. She wears them not to hide, but to invite others into play, to ask: If I am this today, who might you be tomorrow? Her favorite mask resembles a sleeping fawn and hums softly when near water.   To Oisín, she is a daughter both wild and wondrous—his “flower-song,” he once called her, when she stood barefoot among luminous thistles that only bloom once every century. To Niamh, she is an echo of creativity itself: ephemeral, bright, and defiantly her own. She often appears when needed, though never summoned; a flicker in the periphery, a question wrapped in grace.   Though mortal legends reinterpreted her name as a sorrowful cry, Tír na nÓg knows the truth: Plór na mBan was never a keening. She was—and is—a bloom. Not delicate, but luminous. A flower grown not from soil, but from love strong enough to make something beautiful out of nothing at all.