Leah Devon

A curvy woman of about five foot nine, covered in floral tattoos. Her hair is a particular shade of bright purple. She wears a blindfold, a black tank top, cutoff jeans.


Leah Devon is well-known in Homestead, the town closest to her house deep in the Everglades. She calls pilgrims, somehow, and Homestead is prepared to receive them, these days. There are even a few crazy enough to pilot the airboat out to see her, gators be damned as long as they collect their fee. Her home, a ramshackle multi-level affair on stilts and platforms, doesn’t offer much welcome, but she always has tea waiting when someone arrives, and she’ll speak with everyone that shows up. Homestead is protective of its seer; few with ill intent make it to her house. Those that do rarely return.

She talks to people that come about the future, about other worlds like this one. She gives people jobs to do, or she doesn’t, and either way she sends them away. No one stays. Homesteaders speculate she must be lonely, but she doesn’t say one way or another.

Leah Devon

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