Asterion appears as a broad-shouldered outsider wrapped in the clean smell of rain-warmed stone and baked bread. Their skin looks like pale dusk lit from within by furnace-glow, textured with faint mineral lines like veins of marble under ash. Their hair is dark copper, thick and cropped unevenly as if cut with practical hands, but every strand seems threaded with tiny gold sparks when they move. Their left hand is permanently dusted with flour-white chalk, while the right is scarred with delicate burn marks that never quite cool. They wear a plain apron over layered traveler clothes, the apron embroidered with tiny constellations and grease stains that never wash out, and they carry themselves with a careful, economical stride that suggests a smith, a cook, and a pilgrim sharing one body. The most surprising thing about them is their face, which is stern and labor-worn until they smile, at which point it becomes startlingly young and almost unbearably kind.