Even in Thedas, red hair is hardly particularly common for elves. It's perhaps the only part of his appearance he takes pride in, the length now nearly reaching to his waist after five years of never cutting it.

Five years, he had realized, since that day.

It's bound up now, as usual, though these days he requires aid in doing even that much.

"That seems to be a rather common trait," Finel muses quietly in response to the isolation. His own clan had been not nearly as reclusive as some, lost almost entirely to the wilderness and on occasion attacking even other elves that might disrupt their solitude.

But still, the last part makes him frown slightly in confusion, his brows knitting together gently as he tilts his head, his eyes catching at the glint of the bright metal glinting at Aragorn's throat. He hadn't noticed it before, and for a moment he forgets his question.

"...what do you mean? The sins man is bound to make?"