Eryndel moves like someone used to performing before altars and stalking between moonlit pines: a liquid, deliberate gait that quiets stone and leaf. He is fair-skinned to the point of seeming almost luminous under moonlight, with fine, slightly freckled skin that bears a faint net of old ritual scars along his forearms—thin, white lines shaped in sigils no longer taught openly. His hair is pale gold and cut shoulder-length, usually tied back with a strip of dark cloth marked with tiny embroidered stars. His elven-blue eyes are the striking, cool color of glacier ice, but they sometimes deepen to an indigo when he channels his twilight powers. He favors a worn elven coat—soft, charcoal wool embroidered with silver thread in the pattern of a half-moon and two wings—left open to reveal an under-tunic and travel-worn leggings. The coat has been patched in places with scraps from pilgrims' robes, each patch a small blessing he could not refuse. Unexpectedly, his right shoulder is wrapped in a smooth, shimmering strip of cloud-white leather from an outsider’s trophy, a single reminder of a giant he once faced; it catches light and seems at odds with his otherwise shadow-praised presentation. He never wears armor despite obvious scars; instead he relies on grace and the strange serenity that seems to slow the world when he prays.