Cathan is a broad-shouldered human man with a carefully maintained softness to him, as if years of rich food and guarded rooms have been deliberately cultivated into an image of reassuring prosperity. His skin is warm olive-brown, his cheeks faintly flushed, and his dark hair is swept back from a high forehead in a style that remains immaculate even after a long day of political crisis. His hands are the first thing most people notice: thick-knuckled, heavily callused, and stained at the fingertips with ink, despite the expensive rings on three fingers. He moves slowly, not from frailty but from practiced control, pausing before every turn as though giving the room time to accommodate him. His unexpected feature is his smile, which is genuinely gentle and almost shy, a poor match for the ruthless precision of his administrative decisions. He leaves behind the impression of a patient uncle who might quietly ruin a family before dessert.