Standing at 170 centimeters tall, and of average build, she is relatively pale, with grey-blue eyes, arched eyebrows, and cropped pitch-black hair. She has the occasional jagged scar bolting its way across her skin, and can be often found with an amused quirk of the lips, wearing trousers and tight-fitting singlets. Most of her garb is tattered and torn in inappropriate places, but what can a girl do about her wardrobe in the post-apocalyptic world?
(You can disregard the tattoos; I doubt there was a parlour anywhere for Riley)

Name
Riley Pielwood

Race
Human

Age
23

Gender
Female

Combat Skills
Riley is dangerous with a knife - with the intent to slit a throat or to fling into a heart. She knows the rudiments of operating a gun, and has trained in hand-to-hand combat.

Armour
Having never inherited anything apocalypse-worthy in her name Riley is woefully lacking in the armoury. And with the bandits, she would be hard-pressed to convince someone to make a gift out of their own armour, out of good favour. She has a weaponry belt that she slings on her waist, but that's about as good as it gets. She once scavenged a Kevlar vest so worn it doesn’t seem to be very bulletproof anymore. But she usually can't be bothered to wear it, and so spends half her life dodging behind barrels, walls, people…anything that will take the hit in her stead.

Weapon/s

• Handgun: It was something Riley killed another man for, and there are bloodstains she hasn't been able to scrub off. But it's a trusty thing.
• Knives: Riley has a penchant for throwing them. Ranging from gleaming steel to rusted copper, every blade sheathed next to her pelvis is sharp enough to prick and draw blood. She hoards these things obsessively, for a hunt or a kill.

Passive Skills
While she's no cook, Riley does know how to find a meal, and some water. She would make a model Boy Scout, making shelters when she's got the time, and hunting animals if she thinks she can stomach the blood.

Special Abilities
Pyrokinesis. Riley can control flame. Fire will burst to life in her palms, or fingertips. She can put out a fire if she wills it, or add in a little of her own flame to another burning fire. Her brand of flame has proven difficult to put out. Riley likes to joke that pouring milk over it helps, though the actual trick is to deprive it of oxygen. On a large-scale however that would prove problematic. She can also increase the temperature of her skin to an alarming pitch, so as to scald and give first-degree burns to anyone who tries to grab her. But she can’t sustain too high a temperature for too long; Riley has enzymes too that she doesn’t want denaturing.

Background
Riley was born to a mother she can hardly remember. Named Emy, she was tough as nails, and clawed her way out of situations to keep her and her daughter alive. The world was hardly conducive for loving nurture, and Emy was hardly the loving type. Riley would never learn how it came to be that Emy didn’t just toss her infant to the dirt after the labour. But Riley grew up, knees scabbed and skin dirty by age two, knowing how to find grub in the most tasteless of places, and how to protect herself without firearms with knives and her own two hands.

Emy died when Riley was fifteen, and all she knew was that she had been gotten her namesake from an ancient ancestor of Emy’s, who had lived with her toes in green grass and scratching her hands against the trees she climbed. The conversation surrounding that was one of the few memories Riley kept of Emy, that didn’t involve a life-or-death situation.

Another thing Riley quickly found out in the days following Emy’s death was that she had lost her protector, and while she was by no means a hapless damsel, the numbers counted against her. Thus she found herself a pack of bandits, and wormed herself into their ranks with a fearless attitude (faked; she was quaking in her boots), slick tongue, a display of live fire, and by flinging a knife into their leader’s right eye. She can vaguely remember the leader throwing an arm around her shoulders, guffawing and scuffing the crown of her head in welcome while thick red blood gushed from his socket. It took just two minutes for the good cheer to dissipate and be replaced by pain and sickness. But after a nasty bout of infection and fever, and the looting of a travelling band’s doctor, the leader was back on his feet. He was a mad dog, possibly had rabies, but he was always good to Riley after proving herself – in her own way – and was known notoriously as One-Eyed Ovin for the last three years of his life.

Riley continues to travel with the gang of bandits, learning more from them and picking up what scrappy weapons she can along the way. And while she has grown affection for them – they were a family with their admitted quirks – she knows trust between them would be only an invitation for a knife in the back. And so she is smarmy when she deals with the bandits, learning that quick wit and charm defuses the bombs in the group before they blow up. She developed a brand of humour that has kept her alive longer than she otherwise could have, and applies it generously wherever she can. She herself has a weakness for the smooth-talkers, but she remains deadly most of the time. She would like to think she's relatively reasonable and intelligent, but she hasn't had much company outside of the lovable rogue bandits for eight years now. Riley isn’t top dog with the bandits, but she isn’t without cred in their ranks.

Starting Zone
On Road B10 in the Lifeless Cradle, moving between Whitebridge and Tregaron, but closer to the latter.

Competence Check: Wolf Situation

A growl rumbled low behind her. Riley froze where she sat, the hand that had been massaging and inspecting a sore ankle stilling. Under one swift breath, she cursed the rat she had been chasing to a short and childless life. Slowly, she craned her neck to gaze at the yellow glowing eyes nestled in overgrown matted fur. As tall as her hip, it towered over her lowered figure. Wrinkling her noise against its breath - putrid even at a distance - she muttered, "You need a mint, mutt." The wolf only snarled in response, one paw creeping forward. Riley's hand fumbled at her belt, fingers creeping under the edge of her shirt, seeking a handle. She found it, and her knuckles curled white around the wooden surface. The wolf was rank with death, as it crouched. It was ready to pounce. Throwing back her elbow, Riley watched the wolf leap into an arc, jaws snapping as spit flew everywhere. With a yell, Riley toppled onto her back. The belly of the wolf became her sky. It had better not be the last thing she saw. She flung out her hand, sent the knift whistling into the air, and with the softest of yelps, the canine fell into a heap above her head. Riley's ankle still ached like a bitch from the failed rat chase, but she groped over her head, and yanked the blade from the wolf's heart. The bundle of sinewy muscles and dirty fur shuddered next to her. Riley lay back on the ground, listening to the thundering heartbeat in her ears, and the dying pulse beside her.