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Caliban is an unrepentant prodigal, something which hasn't earned him any particular goodwill, though he blends enough with the rest of the common rabble that it can be quite easily overlooked. Just where he actually came from is a question without an answer. For the most part, this is because people don't particularly care to ask, even those whose jobs often involve doing the asking. In quiet contrast to his easygoing nature, there's a certain, clinging sense about the man that speaks clear: don't bother this one. He's truly not worth the trouble.

Caliban is not without muscle, but the overall impression of him is slender, somewhat ill fitted to the confidence he carries himself with, as if he were unaware of the existence of larger, stronger, more dangerous people. His facial features are also a bit of a contradiction. They can best be described as 'soft angles', their appearance almost delicate, yet his skin is rough and slightly weathered, with a smattering of dark stubble along the jaw and chin that he doesn't seem particularly interested in bothering about. His eyes are a sort of muddy hazel, mostly brown shot through with edges of green that are only truly noticeable in warm lighting. Two slightly raised scars, one per cheek, trace from cheekbone to ear, so thin and straight that it's a bit of a mystery whether or not they were inflicted intentionally or as some twist of chance in the heat of combat. A determined individual might settle on "about thirty" when trying to guess at his age, but he has one of those faces that seem merely caught at "not old".

While he's certainly happy to voice his opinions when whim takes him, Caliban tends toward an easy, relaxed demeanor. At times it can even be a bit irritating, as he's cheerfully committed to being cheerfully uncommitted; even with matters he takes seriously, it's rare for him to maintain any level of solemnity for long. His temper doesn't rise often, and when it does, it's usually a brief little flame, quickly snuffed. Usually. Usually.