Is that MAYA HAWKE? No, that’s just KYNARI XENITH. They were born on 30/04/2003 and are a PSYCHIC/BANSHEE HYBRID living in Northknot Town. They work as a PODCASTER/INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALIST. Some say they're WITTY and INSIGHTFUL, but I’ve heard others say they're IMPULSIVE and UNFILTERED. When you think of HER, don’t you think of EYES BUZZING LIKE NEON SIGNS, KNOWING THINGS SHE DIDN’T ASK TO KNOW & HEADPHONES TANGLED AND BLARING MUSIC?
Name: Kynari Kismet Bidelia Xenith Pronunciation: kuh-NAR-ee KIZ-met bih-DEE-lee-uh ZEE-nith Nickname(s): Nar, Trouble, Ky, Bug (childhood nickname used still by family) Birthday: April 30th, 2003 Age: 22 Zodiac Sign: Taurus Sun, Aries Moon, Pisces Rising Gender: Cis-Female Pronouns: She/Her Species: Psychic/Banshee Hybrid Orientation: Straight (aka Closeted Gold Star Lesbian) Occupation: Investigative Journalist/Podcaster Faceclaim: Maya Hawke
HEADCANONS
Kynari sleeps with the lights on, even as an adult. Darkness feels like an unwanted invitation
She keeps multiple playlists: one for grounding, one for spiraling, one strictly for screaming in the car
Her banshee screams come with nosebleeds if she’s emotionally overloaded
She drinks coffee like it’s a coping mechanism (because it is)
Kynari hums without realizing it when she’s anxious—usually whatever song is stuck in her head
She types violently. Keyboards are absolutely terrified of her
She has a soft spot for kids who are “too much” because she sees herself immediately
Kynari can’t stand being touched unexpectedly but craves closeness when she trusts someone
She keeps every voice memo she’s ever recorded, even the bad ones
She laughs at inappropriate times and then immediately apologizes
She hates authority unless it’s earned
Kynari still feels guilty when she rests, like she’s missing something important
She wears headphones in public even when nothing’s playing—people bother her less
She’s terrifying in an argument but cries after, alone
Kynari forgets to eat when she’s deep in a case
She knows everyone’s coffee order without trying
She keeps her sexuality private not out of shame, but fear of emotional exposure
She talks to herself while researching, narrating like she’s already recording
Kynari believes truth-telling is a form of love
APPEARANCE
Kynari has the kind of beauty that sneaks up on you—angular, expressive, and constantly in motion. Her hair is a warm, slightly unruly brown, usually worn loose or shoved back without much thought, catching light in a way that makes it look softer than it behaves. Her eyes are large and alert, a clear hazel-green that seems to buzz with awareness, framed by brows that lift often in disbelief, curiosity, or poorly concealed judgment. She has a sharp jawline and high cheekbones, giving her face an almost sculpted look that contrasts with her restless energy. There’s always something a little off-kilter about her—dark circles from sleepless nights, chipped nail polish, headphones perpetually around her neck—like she’s halfway between listening to the world and bracing for what it might say back.
PERSONALITY
Kynari comes off fast—words tumbling over each other, thoughts branching mid-sentence, humor firing before anyone can decide if they’re ready. She’s witty in that sharp, slightly feral way, using jokes as both invitation and shield, laughing first so rejection never gets the chance to land. She’s observant to the point of unsettling, clocking micro-expressions, tonal shifts, the things people don’t realize they’ve confessed yet. Beneath the chatter is a deeply serious core: emotionally intelligent, justice-driven, and haunted by a responsibility she never asked for. She cares too much, feels too hard, and pretends it’s all casual—until someone’s in trouble, the truth is being buried, or the silence gets loud enough to demand a scream.
AESTHETIC
eyes buzzing like neon signs - static under her skin at 3 a.m. - coffee gone cold beside an open laptop - headphones tangled, volume too loud, future louder - half-heard whispers and unfinished sentences - case files highlighted to death - laughter that comes a second too fast - chipped nail polish, bitten lips, restless hands - knowing things she didn’t ask to know - streetlights bleeding through rain-streaked windows - insomnia as a personality trait - truth digging its nails in
CONNECTIONS
Siblings (6/6) Three biological, two adopted, and one long-term foster who never left; They grew up in the noise with her. They know her tells, her moods, and how to ground her when she spirals. Some tease her relentlessly, some are her safe place, some both
Moms (2/2) Best friends who decided to platonically start a family today, using the same donor and fostering to adoption. They love her loudly and without hesitation, even when they don’t fully understand her. They’re proud of her, worried about her, and constantly reminding her she doesn’t have to save everyone alone
The Girl She saw her when no one else did. Prom night, late-night talks, soft beginnings. She was Kynari’s first everything—and even after the romance ended, the bond never did. They attended each other’s college graduations and still talk every day
BIOGRAPHY
tw: death, undiagnosed mental illness, PTSD, chronic insomnia, sexual assault
Kynari grew up in a house bursting at the seams—seven siblings total: four biological, two adopted, and one long-term foster who never really left. Chaos was the baseline. Privacy was a myth. Love, however, was constant and loud and unconditional. Her moms—best friends since high school—chose each other platonically first, building a family with the same donor and an open heart for kids who needed somewhere to land. (Plot twist: they didn’t realize they were in love until Kynari was nineteen. They married when she was twenty. All seven kids stood in the wedding party. Yes, it was devastatingly wholesome.) Emotions in that house were never ignored—just stacked on top of each other. Boundaries were thin. Affection was thick. Kynari learned early how to read a room, read a mood, read between breaths. Emotional intelligence became survival—and later, a weapon. Her secrets were the only things she owned outright.
“Children learn early what they must do to survive.”
Kynari was eleven when it happened. Her first banshee scream tore out of her in the middle of the night—raw, panicked, prophetic. It wasn’t just sound. It was knowing. A name. A face. A sense of finality she couldn’t translate into instructions. The person was Mrs. Calder, her middle school English teacher—the one who let Kynari stay after class to talk about books, who told her she was “too bright to dim herself for comfort.” The vision was fragmented. A collapse. A staircase. Too late. Mrs. Calder died days later in a freak accident at home. Kynari never forgave herself. She didn’t sleep right after that. Nightmares turned prophetic. Dreams blurred into warnings. Eventually, she stopped trying to rest at all. Insomnia became chronic. If sleep meant helplessness, then staying awake meant control. At night, she researched. Obsessed. Learned everything. Because knowledge felt like prevention. And prevention felt like absolution.
Outside her house, the world found her overwhelming. She talked too fast. Thought too loud. Jumped topics like her brain was double-dutching reality. Undiagnosed ADHD vibes, labeled as weird, extra, a lot. It hurt. She pretended it didn’t. Humor became her shield—self-deprecating at first, then sharper, smarter. If they were laughing, they weren’t rejecting her. If she was funny, she wasn’t annoying. She learned to perform likability. By thirteen, Kynari knew boys weren’t it. By fifteen, she knew—because she fell hard for a girl. The girl. Popular. Untouchable. The kind of girl who ruled hallways without trying. So Kynari kept it quiet. Closeted. Observant. Crushing silently.
“The body remembers what the mind tries to forget.”
Senior year. Prom season. After-party chaos. Too many bodies, too much noise. Kynari steps outside for air—and runs into her. They ditch the party together. Drive nowhere with the windows down. Steal fries from a 24-hour diner. Sit on the hood of the car watching the sky lighten at the edges. Share headphones. Talk about how high school felt fake and how everyone was pretending not to be scared of the future. They get vulnerable. Laugh until it hurts. Kiss like it’s inevitable. End up tangled in bedsheets and whispered confessions. Kynari’s first time feels like fireworks and safety and finally being seen. She loves every second. And then—panic. The next day, fear wins. She spirals. Decides to “check” if she could like guys.
She tries that next night. The boy barely touches her. Immediately she knows she can’t. When she pulls away, says no, the boy doesn’t stop. The assault breaks something in her—but it also clarifies everything. Shame moves in. Silence follows. He threatens her reputation. She believes him. Withdraws at school. Masks harder than ever at home. A month later, a week before graduation, the girl finds her. Had noticed the change. The avoidance. Asks if she did something wrong. Noticed Kynari’s pain when she didn’t have to. Kynari tells her everything. And instead of disbelief or distance, she gets comfort. Support. Presence. Belief. A hand to hold while reporting him. A voice beside hers when the town whispers. High school ends. The case doesn’t vanish. The trial is brutal—but he’s held accountable. Other survivors come forward. Thank her. Tell her she gave them courage. For the first time, the scream didn’t end in silence.
“There is a difference between telling a story and being heard.”
She and the girl date secretly after graduation, respecting Kynari’s wish for privacy. Go to separate colleges. Kynari goes to Northknot University. Majors in journalism. The girl went to a college in the next province over. Long-distance works for a while. Eventually, they part gently—still best friends. Still family. While in college, Kynari learns how to shape chaos into narrative. How to filter visions through fact. How to better control her screams—channeling them into clarity instead of catastrophe. After graduating in 2025, Kynari interns at the local paper. It’s too tight. Too censored. Too slow. She freelances instead. Records voice notes. An editor she works with jokes, “This sounds like a podcast.” So she makes one. The Noise Complaint explodes. Cold cases. Missing persons. Stories people tried to bury. She never shares police consultations—but everything else? With consent? She amplifies it. Her voice becomes familiar. Trusted. Feared in certain circles.
Now, she still consults with law enforcement—for a fee, obviously. Solves cases. Chases truth. Kynari Xenith is the girl with neon-lit eyes and a mind that never closes its tabs. She knows things she didn’t consent to knowing. She hears what people don’t say. She feels the echo before the sound. Headphones always tangled, music always loud enough to drown out the future—until it claws its way back in anyway. She’s witty. Insightful. Fast-talking. A little reckless with the truth and even worse with her own feelings. If she jokes, it’s armor. If she laughs, it’s usually to keep from screaming. If she goes quiet? Something is very wrong. Kynari will always be the person who stays up late doing what she does best: Listening to the screams so no one else has to.
