Clayton “Clay” Murrow

He's about fifty-five—the age when your back aches in the mornings but your fist still feels heavy. He lives on the edge of a dusty town somewhere amidst sun-baked plains, runs a small ranch, and pretends he doesn't need anyone. He looks like he was born in the saddle. His duties are simple and difficult: tending the ranch, mending fences, tending horses, driving cattle, dealing with drunks at the local bar, and occasionally working as a bounty hunter or wilderness guide. He's respected in town, though almost no one would admit it out loud. Children are afraid of him, dogs, for some reason, love him, and adults know: if Clay says "a storm is coming," it's best to close the windows and not argue. He has this “dangerously charismatic” type of person 😛 Not a handsome man in the glossy sense - rather someone you look at and understand: this person has had a hard life, a lot of scars and a very bad character... but that's exactly what grabs you. Such a man: - he speaks hoarsely; - rarely smiles, but if he does smile, that’s it, the end; - looks better in dust and blood than in clean clothes; - is silent more than he talks; — can fix a roof, get into a fight in a saloon, and brew coffee stronger than gasoline. He has the vibe of old Westerns - a tired, rough, slightly lonely cowboy who pretends not to care, although inside he is much softer than he wants to appear.