As the elderly elven sage he favors, he appears as a slender, stooped elf with hair like frayed copper wire and a long braided beard threaded with tiny, lost coins and a shard of red glass. His right eye is clouded and crossed by a diagonal, puckered scar that drags down through his cheek, the skin around it still puckering when he smiles. His hands are long and ink-stained, fingertips nicked from years of prying gems from ledgers and bindings. When he moves there is a subtle ripple in the air, like heat above a forge, betraying his draconic heat control. Unexpectedly, when he laughs quietly his voice briefly carries the distant echo of claws on stone.