Faelendir moves like wind through birch: a long-limbed elf whose steps touch the ground as if he were trying not to disturb sleeping roots. His robe is mottled with moss stains and dried sap; beneath it, glimpses of pale green tattoos (patterns of vines and constellations) wind across his forearms and throat. His face is narrow and lined with faint sun-creases around the eyes, but his cheekbones are still sharply elven. He wears an old iron ring on his left index finger — scratched and oversized — that clangs softly when he laughs, an unexpected, metallic discord against the forest textures he prefers. One of his boots is stitched with bright red thread from a child's sewing—a contradicting flash of color on otherwise muted garb. When stationary he seems rooted and patient; when walking he drifts, as if between present and memory.