Lean and weathered, Eldran Vael moves with deliberate economy. His skin bears a salt-creased patina and a fine network of sun lines that catch the light like cracked stone. He favors simple, densely woven robes in stone gray, faded sand, and soft brown; each patch is mended with near-invisible hand-stitching and trimmed with rope cord that once held sailors' knots. He keeps his hair cropped short at the nape and the sides, the crown threaded with white, and what little remains is often bound with a strip of sailcloth. His beard is trimmed to a neat, utilitarian length and shows pale strands blown silver by sea spray. His posture has a slight stoop from years leaning over the shrine's plinth and the stern of small boats, but his spine is not weak; the stoop reads like a map of a life spent looking down at things worth tending. Fingers are calloused with a surprising grace, palms worn smooth by polishing stone and braiding cords. His eyes are a muted sea-glass green, calm and watchful; when he turns them to you, they register the whole of a room before settling on a single necessary detail. He leaves the impression of a rock smoothed by tides: unshowy, quietly strong, and inevitable. Unexpectedly, he keeps a single bright blue glass bead tied inside his robe near his heart, a colorful and almost childish contrast to the rest of his austere presence.