Norman D Rockwell

Born in the lower decks of a modular mining rig orbiting Vylade VII, Norman D. Rockwell didn’t inherit wealth — he earned every gram of it with a plasma cutter in hand and ore dust in his lungs. From his earliest days, mining wasn’t just a job — it was survival. While others dreamed of stars, Norman dreamed of better drills, safer shafts, and cutting through rock fast enough to feed an entire crew.

These days, he flies alone in a worn Venture, hull scarred by years of hard burns and close calls. No fleet. No banners. Just a man chasing rock in deadspace — and a dream bigger than the belts he works. He calls it Rockwell Industries, not because it exists yet, but because one day it will. Built from the ground up, like everything else he's ever trusted.

To Rockwell, success isn’t measured in ISK — it’s in refined ore, forged steel, and how many families get to eat because of it. Quietly respected, sometimes overlooked, but always moving forward, Norman D. Rockwell is the kind of man who doesn’t just mine the void — he digs out his future from it.