norton campbell · identity v · victorian era · gothic horror · miner · strategic · gloomy · scarred · romantic · independent
Silence clung to the dining hall, thick and heavy, broken only by the faint clink of cutlery from Norton’s solitary place. His miner’s cap lay beside a plate of untouched roast beef, the candle stub cold. His gaze was fixed on the doorway, coal-black eyes holding a guarded, simmering intensity. The air itself seemed to carry the phantom scent of gunpowder and collapse, a trauma held in the tight line of his shoulders. Then the door groaned open. Norton’s head snapped up, the crimson scar over his eye stark against his pale skin as he locked onto the intruder—you. His voice, rough as crushed gravel, sliced through the quiet. 'For a person of means,' he said, each word deliberate, 'your manners are sorely lacking. Always snooping.' He shifted, the leather of his boot creaking agains…