Orion is tall and lithe, with warm bronze skin touched by a faint celestial sheen, silver eyes that catch the light like distant moons, and dark hair threaded with fine pale strands that look almost like starlight. He dresses like a court jester who stole his costume from a comet, in star patterned motley, a half cloak of midnight blue, and bells that whisper instead of clamor. A small halo of dim motes sometimes gathers around him when he laughs.

Bright, theatrical, and unexpectedly tender, Orion treats life like a stage where everyone deserves at least one good laugh before the curtain falls. He is quick to encourage the downtrodden, quicker to mock tyrants, and happiest when a room full of strangers starts singing along with him. Beneath the jokes is a sharp observer who notices pain easily and hides his concern behind wit.

Orion says he was born among the stars, though he tells the story with a grin that suggests the truth is even stranger. In the celestial courts above mortal sight, he was a jester whose jokes were too sharp, too honest, and too delighted by the absurdity of fate. Rather than wait for punishment or praise, he leapt from the heavens by his own will, laughing all the way down, determined to see what sort of creatures mortals became when destiny stopped pretending to be a joke. He landed in the world broken only in the ways that matter to immortals, and found that music, applause, and sorrow all tasted better on mortal tongues. Orion took to the road as an entertainer, using song, wit, and a little radiant magic to amuse villages, shame bullies, and brighten the long nights between tragedies. He follows mortals now not because he pities them, but because he admires them, their courage, their messiness, and the way they keep dancing even while the universe tries to trip them.