Keflin carries himself with a lithe, almost languid grace typical of satyrs, his movements smooth and rhythmic like a quiet dance. His curly chestnut fur is well kept but marked with patches roughened by creaky years and laughter. His loosely curled dark auburn hair cascades over his goat-like ears, tangled with faintly iridescent wildflowers that shimmer faintly in firelight. He has penetrating hazel eyes flecked with gold, often narrowed in amusement or sharp calculation. Strangely, despite his rustic woodland lineage, Keflin’s hands are oddly delicate and pale, almost human in texture, a relic of a secret past. His hooves are worn but meticulously cleaned, and he wears a patched dark green waistcoat over a linen shirt and leather pants, with a silver-inlaid wooden flute always tucked into his belt. The unexpected contradiction is his habit of moving with a dancer’s precision yet slouching comfortably when behind his tavern bar, cocking his head like a cunning fox when amused.