Caelin moves with a measured grace that draws eyes despite his modest height. His black hair hangs in uneven locks past his collar, often slicked back but unruly at the edges, blending oddly with a thin, perfectly trimmed black beard framing a sharp jawline. The most striking feature is his left eye, clouded with a faint milky cast that hints at an old wound but seems almost to pierce the dark. His nobleman’s attire is a patchwork of silks and velvets, each fragment a trophy from a fallen house—manifesting once-proud colors faded and sewn with skilled but uneven stitches. Contradictory to his refined clothing, his fingers bear calloused tips, hardened from years of blade practice rather than courtly life. When he moves, there’s an unsettling stillness, as if he’s always half listening for unseen threats.