Nicos stands tall and lanky at 1.90m, his pale skin almost translucent under the flickering lamplight. His hair, a silver-blonde cascade, is deliberately tousled and unkempt, anchored by a vivid red bandanna that looks out of place on such a refined elven face. His mismatched clothing—a pair of worn, hole-pocked trousers, a shabby leather vest, and a shirt ill-fitting and wrinkled—contrasts sharply with his natural elven grace, as if he refuses the polished vanity typical of his kind. His movements carry a dreamy, sporadic rhythm, like an adolescent lost in fleeting reveries. An expectation lingers around him that he might break into an impromptu song at any moment, though his brooding eyes sometimes flash with a subtle intensity. Most striking is the crimson-glowing lute strapped to his back, pulsing faintly with an otherworldly light.