The elf smiles like the first soft breeze of the spring. His appearance is as youthful as of all his kin, but it also extends past the obvious features, into his very core, the lightness of his walk, the gleaming of his eyes, eager to fill with bursting joy and eager inquisitiveness. His voice rings out clear like a stream, and it is more than easy to hear a river rushing into the sea in his laughter, the elements he has been forged by.

His clothing is a mix of grays, greens and blues, little bits of home mixed with little bits of places he has been to, all put together in a manner that suggests not clinging to a particular sentiment too much. The practical, yet still well crafted and beautiful attire of someone who spends little time in one place.
The one weapon he always carries with him is a bow, clearly of a wood elf make to those skillful enough to discern such details, a weapon well cared for and well used.

But it would most likely be hard to find him threatening by the weapon alone, although other prejudice might be not so easily swayed, because the expression he takes when facing strangers as well as those known to him is that of one friend gleefully greeting another.