Sulley moves like someone who has spent equal parts of his life polishing mugs and listening to people. He has the lithe posture and long-fingered hands of an elf, but those same hands are callused at the fingertips and stained a permanent tannery-brown along the palms from years of tending ale and wood. His smile is wide and quick, a practiced warmth that reaches his eyes first and then to the rest of him. He favors short, practical hair that falls in a loose, sun-bleached sweep to one side; it looks soft like down but hides a single faded burn scar on the nape he tries to keep covered with a ribbon. When he walks through his inn he strides with energetic purpose — sweeping, leaning into a joke, clapping a shoulder — yet his shoulders dip in private moments, as if the inn's laughter sits on a quiet ache. Unexpectedly, his voice carries a faint elven lilting cadence layered under a city-bred gravel, and beneath his convivial exterior he sometimes sports a very small, almost hidden tattoo of an old elven sigil behind his left ear that he keeps tucked away beneath hair or a scarf.