Caelrien moves like someone who has learned to be seen only when he wishes to be. He favors the half-shadow between step and leaf: his motions are smooth, precise, and slightly bowed as if conserving a small reserve of energy. His skin is freckled by a life of dappled sunlight and smoke; his cloak smells faintly of pine resin and a sour ember. The left sleeve of his tunic is darker, singed near the cuff and embroidered with a looping knot that matches the inside of a wooden locket he keeps close to his heart. When standing still he appears watchful and spare, but when he smiles an almost childlike bluntness shows—an unexpected, earnest warmth that contradicts the rest of his reticent presence.