Caledrius moves like someone who measured each step a dozen times and still lets rhythm slip in. He is seldom still. His right shoulder carries an old gray leather pauldron sewn with a faded crest of a river and a hawk. His left sleeve is always rolled to the elbow, revealing forearm scars like tally marks, each a different length. His hair is cropped at the sides and left long on top, tied with a thin strip of blue cloth. He wears a waistcoat threaded with brass rings that catch light a little too often, and heavy traveling boots softened at the heels by years of pacing. Contradiction: his gear is immaculate in some places and ragged in others; his boots are scuffed and cracked while his sword hilt gleams as if polished yesterday. When he speaks his lips often curve into a faint, tired grin that doesn't reach his eyes.