Pup
Pup regarda entre Fuschia et Eliza, fronçant. Ils auraient besoin de gants. Elle n'avait qu'une seule paire de rechange, et le reste était inutile. En marchant vers sa meute, elle a commencé à trier à travers elle, en écoutant que Dusk a commencé à expliquer la situation finalement. Elle a ronflé alors qu'il « révélait » qu'il ne les avait pas amenés ici par la bonté de son cœur. "Tu ne dis pas? Et ici, je pensais que tu nous amenais à ce misérable et glacial milieu de nulle part parce que tu voulais nous protéger des Greys. "Merde-moi." Elle a finalement pêché sa paire supplémentaire de gants libres, en regardant par-dessus entre Eliza et Fuschia. "Quel est l'un d'entre vous qui voudrait des gants appropriés? Je n'ai qu'une paire de plus que j'ai peur », a-t-elle soulevé son gant et lui a filé les doigts pour montrer. "pour que celui qui ne prend pas les gants doive s'occuper des mitaines de lapin que j'ai faites. Ils sont sur la table."
Alors que l'une des femmes les prenait, elle regardait Kaesar, levant un sourcil sur lui. "Oui, Fafnir peut respirer le feu. Chère, allumez la cigarette s'il vous plaît?" Fafnir s'est conformé, respirant rapidement un souffle de feu sur la cigarette de Kaesar. L'homme quittait la maison comme s'il brûlait. Le chiot a levé un sourcil, regardant le reste du groupe. Puis elle s'est tendue, P disant d'urgence dans sa tête qu'ils arrivent. Il n'y a pas de sortie. Tu devrais te préparer à te battre.
"Casse-toi. C'est de la merde." Elle s'est propagée rapidement et a ramassé son arbalète, en chargeant l'un de ses trois boulons dedans. "Combien d'entre nous ici savent se battre? J'ai une hache et un couteau. Quelqu'un peut-il les utiliser efficacement? Je n'ai que trois coups, et ce truc n'est pas complet. Ça pourrait se casser après le premier. À moins que, Dusk, il se trouve qu'il y a une sortie secrète dont nous ne savons rien?"
Character sheet 
The voice in my head has some questions about you. No, I am not crazy.
Can't really call you crazy when my voice has questions too.
What is your real name?
Freya Mathews. My parents had a fondness for norse mythology.
Make sure no one learns it. So, have you thought of a good alias for yourself?
Puppeteer. Pup if you prefer. She glances away, talking to someone else. I'm not going to tell them tha-no, it's stupid, ugh, fine. She returns her attention. The voice, P, wishes to inform you of it's nickname for me. 'The Creator.'
How old are you, anyway? 
25.
How would you describe your own appearance? Height, hair, clothes, whatever.
I'm terrible at this. I'm about five foot seven inches with a little longer than shoulder lenght brown hair that has a streak of white in the front. Natural, I promise. I have murky green eyes and I typically dress in clothing that is half formal half work. Brown, thigh high, lace up boots with dark blue jeans. A green long sleeve button up shirt, a brown leather vest over that, and brown leather gloves. Here's a picture for a better idea.

Recently all of us are afflicted with these impossibly unreal abilities. Like Mystics. What is your ability?
I'm good at making and fixing things. Really good. If I have the proper tools I can create or fix basically anything I need or want to with a speed that would boggle the minds of most people. I don't even need to be taught how to use a tool, or what a machine is. I just grab them or lay a hand on them and know how to use tools and how machines work and how to fix them. Depending on how much I go 'in the zone' I could make something that should take years in a day. Though god am I tired after that. Sometimes I don't even need the tools, just the materials. Though that left me in a coma for a week, so I try to take it slow.
I can exert my will over machines and tools. Make pieces of a car engine stop working, draw a hammer to my hand, jam a gun, mostly little stuff like that. Though I have to be under two feet away or touching them for it to work.
I can also kinda, uh, give life to things. I'm not sure how far it goes, P assures me that it's only permanent things I've created myself, but that's how this little guy got here. She whistles, and a bronze mechanical dragon flies to her shoulder I call him Fafnir. Yes I can understand him. He's about as big as I can go for permanent, at least so far, life. Made me pass out and wake up in a hospital bed three days later.
Which, now that I think of it, was the beginning of the end. On the temporary side of things I can have a hammer or another tool do something by itself for a couple minutes, or have a bunch of tiny things like chess pieces move of their own volition for a game. It seems that their 'purpose' is whatever I deem it to be upon the 'blessing of life that I bestow'. P is very dramatic.
Fire and heat don't bother me. At all. I could stick my hand in a fire and be totally fine. I think I can't even get burned. I actually really enjoy blisteringly hot days of 100 degrees without breaking a sweat. It's why I hate this place, it's so cold. I think I can manipulate it too. Fire, that is. Like that guy from the Xmen movies you know, the one with the lighters. For example, fire reacts to my emotions some times. Flaring when I'm angry, dying out when I'm sad. From what I've gleaned from P, eventually I'll be able manipulate open flames to grow larger, burn hotter, or simply be snuffed out. It assures me that I can't actually create flames. Just manipulate them. So if you douse a flame, I can't make it spring back to life. Like I said, very similar to the guy from the X-men films. I think the whole affinity for fire thing has to do with the fact that my 'powers' are older than P likes to admit. From a time when all creating was done with fire, iron, and the strength of arm.
She hesitates
There's one more thing. Whenever I'm making things I get these...feelings I guess. They're like sensations of elements, or other supernatural traits like invincibility, breathing underwater, or never going dull, on the edge of consciousness. I think I could grab them and put them into whatever I'm making. Whenever I tried though, I passed out (I do that a lot when messing around with my powers don't I?) for a few hours and woke up with a killer headache. P insists that as long as I grow in power I could eventually do it.
What is your voice like? Has he told you anything aside to search for Elvarren?
P? Its current choice of voice is that of a woman right now. I think it just likes that sound for itself, since it tried male and small child of both genders in an attempt to cajole me. P rarely makes me do things, since I mostly prefer to stand frozen in place, locked in an internal struggle, rather than listen to what it tells me to do. It generally approves when I'm making things though.
Where did you come from, and how long have you been looking for Elvarren?
Rural Missouri. There were always things that needed to be made or fixed, so I was a blessing around the household. My parents told me to take it easy on hot summer days after I went into a coma for a week. The doctors and nurses, all looking noticeably more exhausted after I woke up, had said that was the problem. P convinced me that it was better to go along than it was too try to convince them that I had powers and a voice.
I left after P made me drain my mother dry.
Wandered around for a few years, eventually setting up in an autoshop. We became quite popular for fast, really good, service. I had taken to my current style of clothing, trying to keep as little skin to skin contact with people as possible. I only fed off of wildlife or idiots in clubs, gently drifting by until they were tired and had to leave. It was around that time that I made Fafnir. My coworkers found me and took me to the hospital. I woke up a few minutes before the Greys showed up. P screamed at me to run, and for the first time in a long, long time I complied immediately.
Raced back home, got dressed, grabbed everything I thought I'd need (yes, that includes this toolbelt) and I've been running ever since.
How did you end up here?
P said head north. North ended up here.
Anything else you want to get off your chest?
I'll get this ran down piece of crap liveable, ideally before the Greys show up. I hate half-finished products. Also, don't touch the toolbelt without asking.
It is good to meet you, friend. You’ll be safe here – for the time being…
Chuckles. Someone likes being ominous.
Misc. Details
Contents of Pup's Backpack:
-25 Weather proof matches, with a water-proof container
-A dozen small shampoos stolen from hotels
-A hatchet
-A 27x52in towel
-A sewing kit
-A dozen bars of soap
-Hydration pack and hose
-A sleeping bag
-Spare clothing (two extra button up shirts, one made of thick wool, one made of flannel. An extra pair of pants. Two pairs of thick wool socks. An extra pair of brown leather work gloves. A scarf.)
-First aid kit
-A 14x16 foot tarp
On Pup's person and in her Toolbelt:
-Claw Hammer (toolbelt)
-Multitool (toolbelt)
-Two dozen nails (toolbelt)
-Swiss Army knife (person)
-Knife (tucked into boot)
-Compass (person)
-Lighter  (person)