No one in their right mind would describe Caesar as buff. They would say scrawny if they were being nice about it, otherwise use a word that starts with an f, and ends with getting decked in the face. Having the narrow waist of a courtesan, and the long, elegant fingers of a pianist doesn't help his case either. But one does well not to underestimate Caesar's strength, which is paired with the skill of an experienced street fighter and the confidence of a lunatic.
To the detriment of humanity as a whole, Caesar is quite aware of his own attractiveness, often mentioning it in unrelated conversation. His face defaults to a cocky grin so punchable, that it could provoke a nun to a shootout. But these smiles never seem to reach his eyes.
His hair is an oily-black mess, perpetually looking like Caesar just got out of the shower. In contrast, Caesar himself is about as pale as one gets. He avoided the sunlight like the plague even before his... unfortunate condition. His skin is crisscrossed by scars, the ones on his face, for instance, are from an incident when his opponent brought a knife to a fistfight. The scars are occasionally intercepted by patches of elaborate ink-patterns; Caesar has tattoos pretty much all over his body: on the side of his neck, on his shoulder, back, both of his arms and even on one leg, starting from his ankle, crawling up to his hip. They are all nonfigurative, with no meaning, he just thinks he looks hot with them, and he is right. He got piercings—two in one ear, one in the other and one in the right eyebrow—for the same reason.
