Benjan Caeller is an average-looking but hard-bitten man, with a sturdy jaw and the sort of stubble that says he did indeed shave once this morning, already, but may likely have to do so again in the afternoon. Most of his form is shrouded in a long, tarred overcoat, though it is open enough, as he moves, that one can easily glimpse the truncheon and sheathed blade hanging from one side of his belt, balanced by the weathered crossbow on the other. His battered oilskin hat covers nondescript brown hair, cut short in such a way as to imply that its owner would rather not be bothered, and his demeanor is gruff but mild, in contrast with the keenness of his eyes.