Caelum moves like someone who spent years steering a keel through fog: steady, economical, and always a half-beat ahead of any shifting breeze. He wears a long coat of dark, oil-slicked leather that gleams like river water in moonlight; the collar is lined with the faded blue of a river guild, embroidered with a single silver knot that looks like a stylized eye. His face is lined by salt and worry: a thin vertical scar bisects his left eyebrow and tucks into a pale crescent of tissue above his cheekbone. His left hand is tattooed with a lattice of tiny runes that shimmer faintly when he speaks; the right hand is adorned with three thin silver rings, each bearing a different pawned sigil. Unexpectedly, his eyes occasionally flash a warm amber—an inhuman glint that shows most when he smiles, which is rarer than his sighs. When he walks, he tends to tilt slightly to the right, as if listening to an internal current. Up close, his breath smells faintly of bergamot and something metallic (old coins, perhaps).