Arvhel moves with a lithe grace uncommon in traveling merchants, a deliberate blend of elven poise and human restlessness. His skin is smooth, almost porcelain-like but with faint scars running along his right forearm, telling silent stories of past bruises and escapes. Dressed in an eclectic patchwork of dyed leathers and silks—rich burgundy, worn-forest green, and midnight blue—his attire flutters slightly in the breeze, almost as if part of a shadow. His dark chestnut hair cascades unevenly past his shoulders but one striking contradiction is the single silver streak framing his left temple, a mark he never explains. His eyes, a piercing moss green, seem to flicker between warmth and calculation. When he walks alongside his weathered cart, his movement is confident but often pauses abruptly, as if forever opting between haste and caution. A faint scent of aged cedar and exotic spices cloaks him, leaving those who pass by with a lingering curiosity.