Clayton Niles
Age Range: Appears early-50s
Build: Lean and wiry
Height: Around 5'9"
Eyes: Sharp hazel, always calculating
Hair: Dark brown, slicked back but slightly messy
Facial Hair: Thin, trimmed mustache
Clothing: Clean vests, button-up shirts, and fitted trousers
Notable Traits: Polite smile that never reaches his eyes, quick hands, and a smooth, measured voice. Faint scent of old paper, ink, and pipe smoke follows him.
Backstory
Clayton Niles was born in 1839 to a family of itinerant traders who roamed the backroads of Virginia and the Appalachian frontier. His father, Walker Niles, was a self-proclaimed "merchant of fortunes," though most folks just called him a drifter with a cart full of half-empty crates. From an early age, Clayton learned to recognize the weight of a glance, the shift in a man's voice, and the telltale silence that comes before someone makes a bad decision.
By age 12, Clayton could haggle better than most grown men, his sharp eyes spotting every ounce of hesitation. His mother, Ruth, taught him how to listen when people weren’t talking. “Folk always tell you more when they think they’re saying nothin’,” she’d say. It was advice he carried with him long after his parents vanished during a trading trip gone wrong. Folks claimed bandits got them, but Clayton never found proof. All he found was the empty cart, its wheels still spinning.
Left with nothing but his name, Clayton drifted from town to town, always seeking a foothold. His sharp tongue and sharper eyes earned him odd jobs in saloons, inns, and card halls. But it was in Shadewood Hollow that he found his place. In 1869, after Albert Mercer vanished without warning, Monaghan took control of the local hotel. Clayton, now 30, stepped in as a manager under Monaghan’s employ. They say Monaghan hired him because he never flinched when asked hard questions.
Clayton isn't a large man, but he doesn't need to be. Lean, sharp-eyed, and always a step ahead, he runs the Shadewood Hollow Hotel like a man sorting cogs in a machine. No guest is forgotten, no debt left unspoken. He counts guests the way a spider counts flies — watching, waiting.
The townsfolk don't trust Clayton Niles, but they don't cross him either. His smile is too polite. His ledger too sharp. He’s a man who can tell you how much debt you owe down to the copper. They call him "The Clerk of Cards" because every time you deal with him, it feels like you’re playing a hand you’ve already lost. His favorite phrase when folks complain? "A debt's a debt, friend. Time don't make it smaller."
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