Cal Rook is a human man around thirty years old, give or take. He keeps his head shaved, mostly because it is easier than pretending he knows what to do with his hair, and he usually has a short beard that looks like he trims it when he remembers to. He is not especially tall, not especially handsome, and not the kind of man people would point out in a crowd unless he owed them money.

He has done a little bit of everything and been great at almost none of it. He has worked as a courier, dockhand, caravan guard, errand runner, tavern help, warehouse laborer, and once, very briefly, as an assistant to a man who claimed to be an alchemist. Cal does not like to talk about that one.

He is handy enough with his fists when things go bad, and he knows how to take a hit without making a big dramatic thing of it. Still, he would rather talk his way out of trouble first. Talking is cleaner, cheaper, and usually leaves fewer people chasing you through an alley.

Cal is not a hero, not a chosen one, and not much of a fighter yet. He is just a man trying to find steady work, stay fed, and maybe get through one job without it turning into a complete disaster. So far, he has had mixed results.