Thin, angular wood-elf features softened by years living beneath a dense canopy. Thalanir's movements are slow and deliberate, like branches following the wind; when he walks he seems to listen first, then step. His robes are stitched from mud-bark and dyed with lichen, hanging in long strips that rustle faintly as if a constant breeze passes through them. He wears a battered wide-brimmed hat grown from woven reeds and a gnarled oak staff that sprouts small leaves year-round from a knot near the top. Unexpectedly, one of his forearms is wrapped in bright crimson ribbon: a personal mourning band that clashes with his otherwise natural tones. When he smiles, it's quick and sly — the expression of someone who has kept a private joke for decades.