Caelir moves like a man used to both drawing steel and listening for trouble: slow, deliberate footfalls, shoulders never quite relaxed. His left forearm bears a faint, iridescent black scar that shifts like oil when he grows angry or feels danger — a remnant of the night he first took a pact. He keeps a cropped beard threaded with a single silver braid and a streak of ash-gray at his right temple. His clothes are deceptively tidy: a fitted dark coat with a dozen hidden pockets, scuffed leather boots, and a battered brimmed hat he tips when annoyed or amused. Contradiction marks him: his eyes are warm and amused, yet his right hand rests habitually on the haft of a pact-formed blade as if ready to answer a voice only he hears.