Aelendyr moves like a slow wind through leaves: deliberate, reverent, and always with an eye on the canopy. He stands very tall for an elf, not rigid but expanding outward like a tree in bloom. His skin looks faintly veined with silver-green like moss under sunlight; tiny motes of luminescence move across it when he exerts magic. His hands are long, with calluses not from steel but from decades of weaving living bark and grafting saplings into statues. He wears a circlet formed from braided sapwood and star-metal that seems to half-breathe against his forehead. Unexpectedly, his left eye is a pale shard of polished amber—unnaturally smooth and without a pupil—while his right eye is a deep forest green flecked with gold; when he laughs a single, small silver fang flashes, a vestige of an ancient pact. He favors long, flowing motion rather than quick gestures; in battle his movements are patient and inevitability-like, as if the earth itself is aiding each decision.