Cadrin stands with the lithe ease of someone who grew up both on horseback and behind a desk. His skin is weathered bronze, creased at the cheeks and eyes from sun and laughter, yet his hands remain immaculate and soft. His curly black hair is always charmingly windswept despite elaborate grooming, framing a narrow hawkish face and a sharp, often grinning mouth. His left leg limps subtly, a lopsided gait from an old hunting accident, yet he radiates restless, coiled energy—always fidgeting with a seed or die in his palm. Contradicting his visible affluence, he wears a battered farmhand’s leather apron over expensively tailored silks.