From the head of a radiant young man flows shining silver, elegantly flowing over back and shoulder. It is a striking dichotomy between young and old, and one rarely explained. A single line mars his features, not the mark of time but battle. It is crimson and runs down an eye, kissing his otherwise smooth skin deeply. He has kept his vision and the green colour of his iris, but the scar seems to snarl at all who see it. 

He is lean, often clothed in Belegaer blue material or a shining golden garb, as bright as the leaves of Lothorien. Many have suspected him to have been raised among elves, but these would be firm falsehoods. He is seemingly far too clean and immaculate to be a wanderer, but this is what he claims himself to be. 

A mysterious, rusted circlet sits at his forehead, ringing back round to stab their prongs into his strands of silver. It is an unknown artifact, and one that would draw the curious or mischievous eye. It is difficult to stir mirth within him, some saying the object has cursed Eldanton to a state of eternal apathy.