Ainariel moves with the slow, precise economy of a mountain stream. He is tall and lithe with the long, angular face typical of the elder woods of his clan. His skin bears faint silvery scars like the rings of a tree trunk, raised and smooth as if healed by art rather than medicine. His hair is kept in a single, narrow topknot that swings like a pendulum when he walks, braided with a strip of faded blue cloth from his first master. He wears muted leather bindings over his forearms and calves, polished to a soft sheen, and a pale green travel robe slit at the sides for mobility. Contradiction: his hands are always wrapped in well-worn linen bandages, yet his fingers are ink-stained with meticulous calligraphy and marginal doodles of constellations.