Vale is shorter than he'd like to be at just over five and a half feet, but less than six, in height. His thin body is covered in simple homespun clothing that wouldn't look out of place on a farm or holding down a bench at the local pub. His long woolen tunic reaches past his knees and is tied at the waist by a simple rope belt. From that belt also hangs a dagger, an empty looking coin purse, and a quiver to match the bow across his back. A worn hooded traveler's cloak rests upon his shoulders and a sturdy looking pack is upon his back.

The elf's shaved head is adorned only by lines of care and old sickness that seem almost to enhance his presence in a room instead of detract from it. The beard, recently trimmed, remains his sole nod to the vanity of youth. Instead, it is his eyes that pierce you. Eyes that sparkle with determination, and reason with a hint of power. Those sharp grey eyes scan the room even as his right hand shifts upon the longsword that hangs at his waist. Vale is moving forward, and forward is the only direction he will permit himself to go.