"Take it from me, there's nothing more terrible than someone out to do the world a favour."

There are old elves, and young elves. There are wise elves, and lords. There are warriors, and scholars.

To which section this elf belongs is quite a mystery. 

The first reason to this is that the elf is completely normal in appearance, for an elf. High cheekbones, an ageless face, a striking aura... The only thing that is slightly unusual are his eyes, which instead of the normal penetrating emerald green or ocean blue are the darkest tone of brown, smooth, round and unnerving.

His curly hair is also black, contrasting darkly with his pale skin. He looks young for an elf, almost youth-like, as if he only reached his full adulthood not long ago. That isn't, however, necessarily true... this elf is much older than he looks, even by elven standards.

"I daresay," the elf said, pushing the humans aside and stepping over a writhing taproot. "If anyone locked me in a dungeon, there'd be screams."

Wearing supposedly fashionable and well kept robes,  that are comfortable for running, , in hues of black and dark red, this elf does not have a built of a warrior, more like the one of a scholar. He is slimmer than most elves, as if eating was something unknown to him. He also wears a dark cloak, with many pockets filled with strange and dangerous weapons or items. 

"I wanted to take you straightaway, but I knew I had to wait several hours to ensure you were safely recovered."

"What? How long has it been?"

"Five minutes. I got bored."

The odd thing about his elf is his demeanor. With an ironic edge to his voice, he is sarcastic and sour, intelligent and wry: most of the people who he talks to get the unnerving urge to hit him or run away from him.

This elf also is naturally suspicious of humans and dwarves and elves and hobbits, and everything that moves and can throw a pointy rock. But humans and dwarves, in his mind, are the worst.

"All dwarfs are by nature dutiful, serious, intelligent and constructive people whose only minor failing is a tendency, after one drink, to rush at enemies screaming "Arrrrrrgh!" and axing their legs off at the knee. " 

This elf is sometimes seen playing a harp, or a lute. He plays them well, but never sings.

His morality is very inconclusive: not brave or virtuous, he is in fact rather immoral, although not in the way you might think. He is wry and intelligent, with a ironic smile in his pale face. Behind that, however, his eyes scrutinize and examine you. His intentions are unknown.

"I have no use for people who have learned the limits of the possible."

One might see him with a oaken staff, which in times of battle, he can place a curved blade on , turning the staff into a dangerous battle scythe. 

"Don’t ask me how I knew—I suppose it was because it was just about the worst possible thing that was likely to happen."

His name is Candealit. It is not his true name.