Cedo moves like a hulking wave — slow and patient until he decides to crash. His skin is a dusky, ash-tinged crimson that seems to collect the dust of every road he's walked on; his horns spiral backwards in knotted ivory ridges and are scored with nicks where weapons once struck. His beard is a single, coarse braid threaded with tiny metal rings made from broken weapon fragments. His clothing is a mismatched tumble of scars: a sleeveless leather vest stitched over a patched chain shirt, a wide studded belt housing hilts and shards, and a pair of oil-stained wool breeches tucked into calf-high boots. He favors open-fingered gloves on one hand and leaves the other bare — a superstition carried from a night when bare fists won him a town. When he walks, stray sparks sometimes flick at his feet as if his steps rub on embers. Unexpectedly, hanging from his belt in a small glass vial is a neat bundle of pressed feathers — tiny, immaculate and soft, like a child's comfort; it contradicts the rest of his brutal, battered look and people find it oddly disarming.