Kaelrir moves with a restless grace, as if every step is calculated yet casual, betraying the tension beneath. His skin gleams faintly under moonlight, almost porcelain but with a subtle alchemy-made shimmer that hints at something arcane beneath the surface. A cascade of raven black hair falls unevenly over his left eye, half-wild and oily as if sleep evaded him for nights. His right eye, a shock of almost golden amber, scans surroundings like a hawk's. He wears a trenchcoat of supple shadow-dyed leather with many hidden pockets and straps, but unexpectedly in contrast, his boots are patched, worn down, and very ordinary—he refuses to let go of them, despite their looks. Small silver studs trace faint elvish runes along his forearms but are partially faded and chipped, a mark from a past he does not speak of.