Lee Hamblin

{{ Infobox


 * Box title = Lee Hamblin


 * image = File:Wildbillsmirking.jpg


 * Row 1 title = Race


 * Row 1 info = Human


 * Row 2 title = Year of Birth


 * Row 2 info = Undocumented; shortly after the First War


 * Row 3 title = Place of Birth


 * Row 3 info = Dagger Hills, Westfall


 * Row 4 title = Title(s)


 * Row 4 info = Ramblin' Man


 * Row 5 title = Former Occupation(s)


 * Row 5 info = Farmhand, Stonemason, Naval Rigger, Defias Bushwhacker


 * Row 6 title = Current Occupation(s)


 * Row 6 info = Cardsharp, Pugilist, Pistoleer


 * Row 7 title = Affiliation(s)


 * Row 7 info = Stormwind Navy, Stormwind Stonemason's Guild, Defias Brotherhood


 * Row 8 title = Family


 * Row 8 info = Ernest Hamblin (Father), Shirley Lou Holt


 * Row 9 title = Alignment


 * Row 9 info = Chaotic Neutral


 * Row 10 title = Status


 * Row 10 info = Alive, Vagrant

==Summary==

Here leers a dust-caked, sun-beaten husk of a man, craggy and antediluvian as the plains he calls home. Ragged, rugged, and rough, most who happen across this fellow take him for one of the many homesteaders-turned-panhandlers that populate shanty towns across Westfall; the shoe might even fit if not for his partiality to boots. Under closer inspection, the harness of dwarven flintlocks strapped across his his chest and the impish, gnashed-teeth grin plastered to his face spins a different story entirely — the story of a rambler, a surly, revenant son of the boot hills.

Ths intractible specimen was born Wesley Hamblin, though he'd surely introduce himself differently  — usually by the proud monicker "Stagger Lee", earned for the oddity and lurch of his gait. The more pious among the Light's devotees might (justifiably) call it a tribulation just to set eyes on this heathen, for the mere sight of him cuts like the blustery fury of a Westfall twister  — sending the innocent packing and leaving taverns in ruin. Lee is imposing, of above average height and possessed of lanky, sturdy frame; what he lacks in sheer mass between broad-set shoulders he makes up for in tightly-corded muscle, product of a transient life and bouts of malnourishment.

Lee moves with all the urgency of a tumbleweed, only harried when a storm is on his heels. On a wuthering west wind, Lee navigates the world with off-kilter fluency, swaggering with a one-of-a-kind gait, a limp in his right leg making for a perpetual lurch. Stubborn as the Rock of Gibraltar, there's a look of gleeful insubordination in his ever-squinting, flint-hued eyes, as if unyielding in a staring contest with the sun. Steep and craggy as the rest of him, his rutty features come to jagged points, the shape of his face bearing striking resemblance to a coyote — no coincidence, considering his scavenging ways. His only redemption is in his gravely, succoring drawl, with which the old world proverbs and countryside idioms of a folk balladeer are rendered in a coat of molasses.

The beauty of being ever-blanketed in the dust of the road is that no one can quite tell when you arrivd, where you're going, or where you came from. There are, however, a few clues stained on his body in time-worn ink  — the likeness of some androgynous mercreature on his left shoulder suggesting some past affection for the sea, a chisel and mortar emblem on his right forearm marking a membership in the now-defunct Stormwind Stonemasons Guild, and the morbidly humorous instructions to 'bury with boots on' scrawled across his chest.