An angular young elf whose pale skin seems to drink light rather than reflect it. His hair is white and fine as spider silk, usually braided back in a single narrow plait tied with a strip of faded blue cloth; loose strands continually drift across his forehead as if moved by some inner draft. His eyes are a soft purple that shimmer faintly under moonlight, giving him a perpetually watchful look. He favors a puckered leather jerkin patched with tidy stitches, and a long, moth-eaten cloak whose inner lining is embroidered with the sigil of his fallen house in thread gone silver at the edges. When he moves he is precise and deliberate—footfalls light but never careless—and there is a paradoxical contradiction to him: his gestures are elegant and courtly, remnants of noble bearing, while the tips of his gloves are stained brown with dried blood and soot, and his hands habitually bear the little calluses and ink stains of a man who has both fought and made notes by candlelight.