"We can't be good unless we know what bad is, and it's a shame we're working against time."
- Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes

Reese Blackwell stands just shy of six feet tall. His age is difficult to determine. Though his features have something of a youthful quality, deep lines, especially around his eyes, betray him as being older than he appears. His clothing and possessions are well maintained, but strictly functional. His dark colored hat and duster are often liberally coated with dirt from the trail, his hair perpetually unkept. Most days, his breath smells of whiskey.

His speech can be surprisingly proper, his accent revealing his Southern origins. Blackwell's manners, along with his occasional flashes of humor, suggest someone that once thrived on the company of others, but has since abandoned such a life for a primarily solitary existence. Despite his obvious preference for seclusion, he will reciprocate friendliness during his intermittent saloon visits, or when among those few he has grown to trust.