Kaelmor moves with a careful, almost lazy grace that belies the intense alertness behind his calm gaze. His fingers are permanently stained a faint rusty hue from years of working with exotic coffee blends that contain unusual minerals. Though he wears simple, threadbare robes that seem to fade into the smoky, cramped space of his café, his posture is regal — shoulders back, chin slightly lifted — a remnant of authority subtly cutting through his apparent humility. His face is weathered, with laugh lines framing a mouth that rarely smiles. A faint, almost imperceptible scar traces a silver thread from just below his left ear down his neck, like a whisper of forgotten battles. Oddly, his eyes shimmer gold in certain light, as if embers smolder beneath tired lids. An inexorable magnetic calm surrounds him, but some corner of his soul is weighed down by something imprisoned beneath the surface.