Thalanor moves like a tree moved by a slow, deliberate wind: patient, rooted, and aware of everything that brushes his robes. He favors long flowing vestments patterned with subtle fern and pine motifs; the hems are embroidered with silver thread that catches light like dew. His face is narrow and pale, cheekbones high, with faint lines at his eyes from long years of watching seasons change. His left temple bears a silver scar in the shape of a sapling — the memory of a fallen branch during a youth spent in the groves. He keeps one sleeve rolled back to reveal a wrist tattoo of concentric rings that darken when he prays, an old elven warding practice. Unexpectedly, his right hand is always stained with green — not from dirt but from crushed pigment: he collects sap, dyes, and pigments to reinforce relics. The overall impression is of someone ancient and gentle, someone who could be as patient as a stone and as implacable as a winter storm when protecting what he loves.