Thandoril stands with a verticality that suggests he is being suspended by a wire from the heavens. His skin is the texture of polished, cold marble, seemingly devoid of pores or imperfections. His eyes do not possess pupils; instead, they are swirling vortices of gold leaf and white mist that move faster when he is agitated. His hair is a spill of liquid silver that falls perfectly to his waist, never tangled by the wind that constantly swirls around him. He leaves an impression of absolute sterility, like a surgical theater. Unexpectedly, he carries a very old, rusted iron key on a simple twine cord hidden beneath his opulent robes, which smells faintly of damp earth.