Fiddlefen moves with an almost whimsical bounce, a gait hinting both at grace and nervous twitchiness. Her slender, supple eladrin frame is draped in a perpetually grass-stained, slightly too-small midnight blue velvet blazer lined with silver thread that catches the light oddly, like stars scattered on a night sky. Ivy tendrils curl and twist naturally around her slender, almost translucent horns, sometimes growing tiny white blossoms that she absentmindedly twists between her fingers. Despite her ethereal beauty, her eyes hold a rusty, fragile glint of weariness and regret, flickering between hope and self-doubt. An incongruously patched satchel hangs at her hip, stuffed with maps she can’t quite read and arcane trinkets that hum faintly.