Velthorin moves with the light-footed grace of a dancer, his motions fluid but weighed with an undercurrent of alertness. His skin is pale with a faint shimmer, like ivory kissed by moonlight, contrasting starkly with his coal-black hair which falls in uneven, slightly oily strands around his angular face. His eyes are a piercing silver-gray, sharp and calculating, framed by faint shadowed circles suggesting many sleepless nights. Paradoxically, a faint scar runs down his left cheek — a harsh reminder of a violent past — yet his smile when coaxed out is disarmingly warm and genuine. He wears a patchwork cloak of dark green and deep blue, embroidered with subtle arcane runes that shimmer faintly in dim light, layered over fitted leather armor softened by years of wear. Oddly, his fingers are always stained with ink, as if he never parts from a small journal that few are ever allowed to see.