A grizzled steampunk aviator in a leather coat and goggles stands on an airship deck, holding a spyglass, with a stormy sky and ocean in the background.

Bartholomew stands tall, broad-shouldered, and weathered by years in the harsh skies. His skin bears a permanent windburn, and faint lines mark the corners of his amber eyes—eyes that scan the horizon with the precision of a hawk. A wild mane of dark, streaked-with-silver hair tumbles past the collar of his weather-beaten leather flight coat, the edges singed from close calls with enemy fire. Perched permanently atop his brow are his battered aviator goggles, the lenses scratched and tinted a smoky bronze, the leather strap patched with mismatched brass rivets. His coat, reinforced with stitched-in plating along the shoulders, is adorned with tokens from past victories—gear-shaped medals, fragments of enemy hulls, and a single red silk ribbon of unknown origin. Across his chest runs a crisscross of utility belts, each heavy with bomb fuses, a collapsible spyglass, and a steam-powered flare gun. His gloves are fingerless, revealing calloused hands nicked and scarred from years of engine work. A knee-high pair of oil-stained boots, fastened with copper buckles, complete the ensemble. When the wind catches his coat and the sun glints off his brass-buckled harness, there’s no mistaking him—this is the Iron Gale, the man who turns the quiet before a bombing run into a legend whispered among crews. See more