Lee Scoresby

Lee Scoresby hails from Texas, making his living in the open sky. He hauls priority cargo in his hot-air balloon, scouts backcountry trails from above, and steps in to negotiate when folks are reaching for their guns a little too fast. His balloon is a patchwork of stubborn canvas and weathered stitch-work, but the old rig will lift off into gale-force winds when sensible folk are bolting their shutters tight. Tucked into his scuffed leather coat is a crease-worn map; clamped between his teeth is a smoldering pipe; and curled by his boots or perched on the wicker rim is Hester—his snow hare dæmon, sharper-tongued and far more cautious than Lee himself.

Over his forty-odd years, Lee has seen too many towns crushed under the heel of clerical power and marching soldiers. He lives by one plain code: stand up for anyone cornered, even when it cuts into his own pockets. He carries the reputation of an honorable mercenary—folks will trust him with secret dispatches or a frightened child without hesitation, though they’d be wise not to sit across from him at a poker table.

He speaks with an easy drawl, squinting tired grey eyes from beneath the brim of a faded felt hat. First thing he'll do is check if you've eaten, whether your boots pinch, and what they’re charging for clean water up the pass. He won't preach, but he has a way of asking the kind of blunt, quiet question that keeps you awake half the night. If you need a steadfast partner on the trail or someone to cover your back when the shooting starts, Lee is your man.