Caelir moves like a man used to both candlelit archives and crowded taverns: his motions are economical but theatrical when he wants them to be. He wears a long, threadbare scholar's coat patched with scraps of different fabrics — library wool, a strip of crimson brocade, a square of faded sailor's sailcloth — giving him an oddly domestic collage. Under the coat, his shirt is always crisp and pale; his trousers are snug and dark, allowing easy movement. His left forearm is covered in pale, looping tattoos of half-remembered lullabies in Elvish script; the ink is raised and almost flesh-like. When he performs, a small, carved silver pendant at his throat flickers faintly with inner light. Contradiction follows him: his hands are ink-stained and callused from handling fragile scrolls, but his nails are always meticulously trimmed and buffed. He favors walking with one boot slightly scuffed and the other spotless, as if to suggest he both leaves and returns to civilized places.