The young Eladrin stood at his full five foot nine inches. As far as Ramar could remember, he’d never slouched. Even when lunging, he’d kept his back ram-rod straight. He never misplaced a foot, even when practicing the most difficult sword-forms. Now he moved with sinuous grace, no that wasn’t right. It wasn’t grace as much as it was calculated malice. It looked like he was making decisions on a basic level that others took for granted- like when to breathe. He’d always moved when and where he wanted to move and struck without hesitation.

Physically, he hadn’t changed much. His frame was slight, thin in the shoulder and thin in the waist, so much that he could be described as frail. Long hair worn free in the style typical to Eladrin, was the color of sunlight touching the purest gold. His coloring had grown a shade darker than the alabaster whiteness associated with the rest of the nobility. Ramar concluded that it was from adventuring, tales of which had drifted even to his little cottage in the Feywild.