Where light flows, whether sun, torch, candle, or lamp, the copper of his long unbound hair draws the eye, and the smiling, welcoming countours of his face prevent one from wondering why they never heard the tall, muscular elf approaching along the road.

Charming conversation, a helping hand across difficult terrain, and laughter even at the most boring and repetitive jokes distracts from the hazel tint of the left eye, the color just different enough from the green of the right, leaving one to wonder whether the tatoo of the trunk of a young oak tree and the fine, but growing branches growing from the brow cover an ancient scar or whether the color of the tatooes change the perspective of the eye, muting the green of the right in comparison to the art of the ink below and above the eye.

Tasteful clothing in the muted colors of the natural forest and earth do little to distract from the autumn brightness of the hair, and while they may be well worn, they are obviously perfectly tailored and mended, displaying a careful and talented hand to those who would look deeper that the beautiful hair and handsome face. Graceful strides bely a hidden physicality and strength capable of pushing a stranded wagon, pulling an obstinate donkey, or unloading the casks of trade with ease.

For those in need, the flash of colorful hair is the memory prefacing the arc of javelin into a bandit’s throat, a hint of luck in the appearance of the graceful stranger, and the only payment the sharing of a meal and good story before he is gone again, with a blessing to Meilikki, or maybe Rillifane on his lips.

Those who manifest ill intent witnessed darker aspects of the stranger, the coppery hair hiding the scent of blood wafting from the carvings on the half-spear twirling in his hands, the wicked sharpness of the piercing javelin, the icy cold of blue flame burning within the eye of the oak before springing forth to scorch the evil from them.