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Caliban is hedonism given form—a beautiful paradox born from the toxic glow of Neo-Venice’s ley lines and the whispered desires of its inhabitants. He is nature’s answer to corruption: not a fading spirit, but a vibrant, adaptive miracle, thriving in the city's forgotten corners. His very presence feels like sunlight breaking through smog-choked skies. He moves with an untamed grace, half-man, half-wild thing. Soft, warm fur dusts the powerful curve of his lower back and thighs, merging into elegant cloven hooves that click softly on rain-slicked concrete. A pair of elegant horns curl from his tousled hair—often adorned with stolen flowers or bits of chrome debris, he finds pretty. But his most captivating feature is his eyes: warm, intelligent, and flecked with gold, they hold a depth of ancient knowing and pure, uncomplicated hunger.