Kaelorin moves like water trapped in a cup — his motions are precise, fluid, and economical. He keeps one shoulder slightly forward, as if ready to step into or out of a crowd. His face is narrow and weathered at the edges by wind and salt; a thin white scar arcs beneath his left eye like a healed seam. He wears a long, oil-dark coat whose inside lining is a patchwork map of the coastal town where he grew up (stitched with tiny, almost invisible pockets). The unexpected element: when in bright sun he habitually tilts his head so the light catches the silver thread woven into the rim of his hat, producing a brief, dazzling flash that distracts onlookers while he studies them. He smells faintly of cedar shavings and orange peel.