An aged and worn figure even by the reckoning of elves - Calarond has either weathered so much, or simply lost whatever timeless arcana preserves the bodies of elves ever-young and able.

While his posture is not bent and his skin is not withered - there is a ponderousness to his motion that has displaced whatever ageless grace he once possessed, and a rugged world-weariness that resonates in the sonorous notes of his voice.

And though by all inspection he should curse his fate - for he is neither wealthy, nor powerful, Calarond seems content in his withering - and looks upon the world with a passion doused, leaving embers of a quieter joy.