Kaelin moves like a coiled spring—quick, economical motions that look practiced. He dresses for movement: a charcoal overcoat cut to let a rapier slide free, sleeves cinched at the forearm, and low boots with worn soles that never announce his step. His skin is the pallid gray common among the duskwrought, with a dusky iridescence along his jaw that flashes like metal in certain light. His left ear is threaded with a thin silver ring and the lobe bears a tiny burnt sigil—an old brand he pretends is a childhood accident. His hair is cropped close at the sides and left longer on top so it falls into his eyes until he brushes it back; silver thread runs through a single braid behind his right ear. Contradiction: his hands are callused and competent, but his nails are kept impossibly clean and filed into neat points, as if he cannot bear grime on his fingertips.