Kaelen looks as though the sky itself has tried to claim him and failed to hold on. His youthful face is sun-bronzed and wind-polished, with a narrow scar cutting through one eyebrow and a grin that arrives before his words. His bright eyes constantly track motion, from drifting dust to the twitch of a sentry's fingers. Dark curls tumble around his head in wind-tossed loops, even underground, where stray drafts seem to find him. He moves with a spring-loaded looseness, never quite standing still, balancing on the balls of his feet as if a sudden gust might lift him. His patched glider-harness creaks like old sails, its metal ribs dulled by grit and salt. The unexpected contradiction is that his hands are remarkably delicate and clean, with neatly trimmed nails and the careful touch of someone who repairs instruments rather than merely surviving with them. He leaves behind an impression of warmth, altitude, and imminent danger.