Although he may be seen as bold in his tall, stone-like posture, Falathal's spirit is best grasped hearing his soft, almost whispering voice. He would sing melodies that would lull even the most troubled minds to sleep with ease, as if they were under a strong spell. 
His own eyes, however, always looked tired and drained, his lids of unhealthy red and underneath, two strikingly blue jewels which reminded of sea waves on a merciless storm's day. It was a questioning gaze he struck; not one of judgment, but rather of understanding and the desire to understand.
As with much any elf, his facial features were prominent, sharp and enlightened-looking, but light and soft at the same time, maintaining the beaming innocence. His well-read forehead shone when the sun was highest and it seemed as if his lips were at all times soaked in water, not too thick or full, but red and pouty as a rosebud. Dew and rain lingered in his ashy brown hairs, bouncing off the light that shone from the stars, dancing with the sweet song of cold evening breeze that tangled his locks into enchanted elven braids. When he laid asleep, the silver-glimmering drops would get trapped in his wild, untamed brows, and when he woke with the dawn's first watch, tears of the moon were on his thin, almost blonde eyelashes.
But far more than anything, it was his skin that stood out in the night even more than the Moon itself. A flawlessness cold, translucent pale-white and cheeks of cool, deep hues of pink, ever youthful and healthy. It seemed as though there was not a mistake, nor a slightest scar could befall it. He shone in moonlight in an aura of pristine white. And where his light reached, no evil dared to.