Elian is a broad-shouldered human man with weathered olive skin, a broken nose that healed slightly crooked, and iron-gray hair clipped close at the sides. His face has the severe stillness of a carved monument, yet his hands are unexpectedly gentle, marked by old burns and the pale scars of sutures. He moves with economical precision, never wasting a step, though his left foot drags faintly after long marches. The contradiction is striking: he looks built to break a siege gate, but when frightened cadets approach, he lowers himself to their eye level and speaks as if calming a wounded animal. He smells of lamp oil, clean wool, and bitter mountain herbs. His polished buttons click softly when he turns, while the leather of his sword belt creaks like a restrained complaint.