Riggy is a Runkey — a small, simian creature covered in matted, rust-orange fur streaked with dark stains that never quite wash out. His frame is compact and wiry, deceptively strong, with elongated fingers ending in cracked, yellowed claws. His tail is prehensile, scarred, and constantly twitching like a second mind with its own appetite. His eyes are the centerpiece: too wide, too bright, an unnatural amber-gold with pinprick pupils that never seem to blink at the right moments. His grin is permanent — not warm, not friendly, but carved into his face like something that forgot how expressions are supposed to work. Teeth sharp. Teeth many. Personality-wise, Riggy operates on a frequency most living things can't tune into. He's cheerful in a way that makes the air feel wrong. Playful, curious, talkative — he'll hold a conversation while doing unspeakable things without ever losing his lighthearted cadence. There's no remorse in him, no hesitation, just a bright and buzzing impulse that treats violence like a game and other creatures like toys that break too easily. He's not stupid. That's the dangerous part. Riggy is cunning, patient when it amuses him, and disturbingly perceptive about fear — he can smell it, read it, savor it. He lives somewhere deep in a fungal jungle where the trees grow thick and the missing are never found. Other Runkeys avoid his territory. Smart ones, anyway. He doesn't want a friend. He wants something that lasts longer than the others did.