Caledryn moves like someone used to hauling lines and slipping off wet decks: careful, economical, slightly forward-leaning. He stands with one shoulder always a hair lower than the other, as if balancing an invisible weight. His clothes are layered in a practical, salt-marred way: a heavy ink-blue coat over a reinforced leather jerk, each cuff braided with a thin strip of silvered thread. His left forearm is wrapped in a faded, braided sea-green ribbon beneath a leather vambrace; when he walks that arm swings less freely. Up close you see fine, almost calligraphic scars around his right wrist—tiny white slashes like ink blots on parchment. Unexpectedly, a small brass music-box pinned inside his breastcoat occasionally peeks from a pocket, its tiny hand-and-gears engraving showing a child's dancing gull. The overall impression: a man who has spent his life on wind-swept docks but who keeps one private relic of gentleness and precision.