Era: Two to three generations after the end.

This tribe survives closer to the city’s broken heart, where scavenging is rich but dangerous. Hunting is rare — stealth and raiding are how they thrive. With rival clans nearby, silence is survival.

She moves through this world with a steadiness that isn’t bravery but practice — the muscle memory of someone who has walked these fractured paths since childhood. The mud on her face is not decoration; it is function, ritual, and identity. Each dried streak blends her into the rubble, softens her outline, makes her a whisper instead of a target.

Her clothing hangs in tatters, but nothing about it is accidental. Every strip of fabric muffles sound, every knot is placed where it won’t catch on twisted metal or broken glass. The small crown of twigs tangled in her hair is not vanity either — it’s camouflage, a way of becoming part of the terrain she navigates.

Her eyes carry the quiet intensity of those who rarely speak but always listen. There is no fear in them, only calculation: the distance to the next hiding place, how long since another tribe passed through, whether the wind will betray her footsteps.

In the ruins she is something liminal — not fully hunter, not fully scavenger, not fully survivor, but a seamless blend of all three. A presence shaped by the city as much as by her people.

The storm behind her gaze tells the truth her lips never voice: that survival here is not an act of strength, but one of constant adaptation. That silence is not emptiness, but language. That the dead city is not her enemy, but her teacher.

She walks through the aftermath like a spirit carved from dust and broken concrete, claimed by the land she crosses. A woman who no longer fears the ruins — because she has become one of them.