Sulley is an odd, lumbering sight for an elf: broad-shouldered and barrel-chested where most of his kin are willowy. His face is weathered like old oak—deep laugh lines, a faded scar across his left cheek where bark once gashed him, and a perpetually sunburned bridge of the nose. His long elven ears are not graceful filigree but nicked and squared at the tips, each notch a tally of a year's worst season. He keeps a short, grease-stiff braid of hair down his back threaded with crude iron rings (charms representing crews he has hired and debts he expects to be repaid). Sulley's movements are deliberate and heavily grounded: a slow stomp with an almost hypnotic rhythm, the kind that makes horses and children quieten. Contradiction clings to him—his hands are stained with sap and sawdust, but his fingers are precise and clean at the nails, accustomed to signing ledgers as much as hefting axes. He favors a thick leather apron studded with rivets over a moss-green tunic, and a ledger strapped to his belt under a chainmail patch sewn into the apron. Even when he smiles it looks like the tightening of a ledger's clasp.