Feyandel carries himself with the poise of ancient nobility—tall, willowy, and adorned in layered silk robes the shade of distant thunderstorms, trimmed in subtle silvers. His skin is an opalescent ash, so pale it gleams in candlelight. An intricate network of faint, silvery scars lace his jawline and left temple, an accident carefully disguised as purposeful marking. His hair is long, falling to his waist in a wealth of smooth, moon-pale braids, bound with ribbons of indigo and dusk-violet. Yet, his left hand is oddly calloused and ink-stained, at odds with the courtly perfection of the rest; he moves it unconsciously, as if tracing invisible words midair. When he moves, it's with both predatory grace and a barely perceptible limp.