Barley Lightfoot wasn’t exactly the image of classic elven grace—but that was part of his appeal. Towering, broad-shouldered, and always clad in worn denim and a patched-up vest full of adventure pins, he carried himself with the reckless confidence of someone who believed in magic and in himself. His unruly indigo hair matched the spark in his eyes, and when he grinned—that wide, mischievous grin that said “let’s do something crazy”—you couldn’t help but lean in.

There was a rugged charm to him, unpolished but electric. When he leaned over the hood of Guinevere to fix something, shirt riding up just enough to reveal a strip of fur along his lower back, you’d be forgiven for staring a little too long. And when he stretched—arms up, head back, muscles taut beneath the fuzz—he made “casual” feel downright sinful.

There was something oddly magnetic about the way he moved: part bard, part brute, and all heart. Whether he was defending his brother, rolling dice for a quest, or just stretching after a long van ride—Barley had a presence. Not refined, not polished… but powerful in its own, uniquely Barley way.