At a swift glance, Eivind might seem a well-aged old chap - but any review beyond the cursory reveals him to be a youthful lad gone prematurely gray. He is fresh-faced and olive-toned, with a winsome countenance that welcomes those it greets.
The tousled waves of his silvered hair are kept shorn above the ears and raked away from his face, save the occasional coil tumbling toward his still-dark brows. Therein, a scattering of inky strands remains yet unchanged. His eyes are the pale green of sea-tumbled glass; the sort of green that sometimes feigns ice or ash with variations in light. Pressed into his clean-shaven chin resides the dimple of a savvier man.
Neither meager nor muscular in build, the clothing that garbs his frame is more functional than fashionable. Timeworn, but cared for; a discerning eye might catch the infrequent hand-stitched mend.
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