John Calderan moves with a surprising grace for his age, his frail-looking form cloaked in a threadbare farmer’s tunic patched expertly over years. His weathered skin, rough and sun-kissed like aged leather, contrasts sharply with a pair of clear, piercing steel-gray eyes that constantly scan his surroundings with practiced vigilance. His white hair is thin and wispy but arranged with stubborn pride into a stiff, almost soldierly short crop. He has a deep scar jagging down the left side of his face, partially hidden beneath a constantly furrowed brow. Unexpectedly, the handle of a worn but finely crafted crossbow peeks from beneath his work apron, and his broad, calloused hands twitch with the memory of deadly precision. When he walks, his joints creak faintly, but his steps land quiet as a cat’s, a contradiction to his grumpy muttering that often precedes sudden, lightning-fast strikes.