Vaelithryn moves with a ghostlike grace, his movements slow and deliberate as if weighted by centuries of regret. His once-vibrant elven features are gaunt and hollowed, the skin stretched thin over high cheekbones shadowed by endless sorrow. A deep violet scar runs diagonally from his left temple down to the corner of his pale, almost translucent lips, the skin there faintly shimmering with a brittle, cracked texture, like old parchment. His long silver hair falls unevenly, tangled with strands of deep black as if touched by shadows, often obscuring one eye. His eyes themselves are a translucent ash gray, rimmed with faint lilac veins, seeming almost empty yet drawing in all who dare meet his gaze. Against this fade of life, he wears a conflicting symbol of hope—a single bright white feathered cloak clasp that swoops into a cascading wisp, fluttering perpetually as though caught in an unseen wind, contradicting his overall aura of despair. His clothing is worn and simple—a threadbare dark robe embroidered with faded silver runes, its edges ragged but strangely weightless.