Meril
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Upon first sight, the figure that this young elf cuts scarcely appears in any way dangerous. His rich brown hair, kept fairly short and just reaching his upswept pointed ears, curls and weaves in a pleasing sort of untidiness. His finely chiselled elven features are attractive, though no more so than a great number of his race. But his deep green eyes speak of ancient forests and hidden glades, betraying a wealth of experience accumulated in the less than two hundred years he was wandered the realms.
Slung over one shoulder is the finely crafted longbow he carries everywhere he goes. On his belt hangs a longsword in a scabbard that seems far more worn than the bright blade resting within - and yet, the blade seems older somehow, too. His boots have the look of Kara-Tur about them, and carry intricate designs of that people.
On his back rests a large shield, of elven make. A quiver held over another shoulder contains a number of ordinary - but well crafted - arrows. On his hip rests another, smaller quiver containing various unusual looking arrows, which he perpetually seems to be resorting into an order which suits him - though no sooner than he has done so, they seem to return to state of apparent chaos.
All about his person lie various pouches, potions, scroll cases, magical wands and instruments. A mandolin - inlaid with runes and obviously treasured - sits in a leather case, within reach but out of danger in combat. A set of plain and ordinary birdpipes hang on his belt - odd that they should be kept so plain, when his other instrument carries such enchantments.
At his left side and beside the quiver on his hip is a fairly new addition to his appearance: a small, plain green disk of leather, attached by a green leather thong to dangle loosely, but only a small distance away. At the bottom of the disk are attached three hawk feathers, and the entire symbol he wears he openly and unashamedly - though whenever he looks at the simple disk - as often he does - it is with a look of wonder in his eyes, as if some great honour has been granted to him that he still struggles to understand.
His armour is a thin set of leathers, coloured in warm, light earthy tones, with parts of his upper arms and legs protected by delicately wrought metal tinted green. It barely looks to restrict his movements at all, and in fact seems to enhance them. Certainly while wearing it he appears to move with a fluid grace that few even of his people possess.
But perhaps the most unusual part of all the equipment he carries is a lilac cloak which dances playfully about his feet in the wind. It is obviously magical, but its powers seem perhaps more subtle than the rest of his gear.
Usually polite and cheerful, ever seeking adventure and unafraid to speak out and stand up for good, this elven minstril does tend to be reserved with his thoughts and emotions to strangers. Those who knew him when he first arrived in Narfell would comment that years have quietened the elf somewhat, giving him a slightly more serious demeanor.
Quick to smile and joke in play, and lately a bit quicker to laugh (a soft, light, melodic sound which is ever pleasing to the ear), his mood is rarely serious unless troubled by something, when he can appear withdrawn and lost in thought. Even in great danger, his wit manifests as a dry, perhaps more mature sense of humour. Likable and well known in the region, he is seen everywhere from Peltarch, where he speaks with more than a few senators as if he were unaware (or uncaring) of their rank and status; to the Rawlins, where he walks alongside both druids and rangers. Some have commented he looks more in awe at these protectors of the lands than the rulers of the city to the north.
But any who know him will tell you, he forever seems most happy when he does not stay in any one place too long. A lover of freedom, it is hard to imagine what has kept this elf in Narfell for the number of years he has been, or what draws him to the south of the lands for so many days - breaking his usual wandering habits.