Royalist Eidolon of the Peony Sky might be 5' 8" tall if he ever straightened up.  Instead, the permanent bend in his back leaves him hunched over, eyes squinting perhaps four and four-quarters feet off the ground.
And such eyes!  Sky (or "Peon," if you're feeling unkind) has a face of such unheard-of ugliness as the world does not readily comprehend.  He is ugly with style.  His nose is broken and badly-healed, his brow is sloped like one corner of a pyramid, the sides of his mouth don't move to the same height when he smiles or frowns, and his hands are scabrous and somewhat gray (unlike the rest of his skin, which is black streaked with brown).

The rest of his deformed figure is covered by a sweeping cloak of motley, a well-maintained (but obviously patched and mended) dark green tunic slashed with blue, and thick leather leggings that somehow suggest crutches.  His scraggly, disobedient hair is forcibly restrained by the munificent hands of a faded “Fool's cap” of many colors; bells (most of which have their clappers) dangle from the tassels.  More small bits of metal and red copper-colored jingelry hang from his tunic and cape.
Somehow, though, he radiates ephemeral beauty, like a timid monster from before the dawn of time, seen just once as it crosses the horizon on the way to its cave in the primeval forest.

At least, so he is to the more impressionable souls.  Most are distracted by the sound of his walk.  Every step sends his bric-a-brac adornments careening off of each other to create a lurching yet merry tune that continues long after he's holding still.  His head sways from side to side like a weathercock, blasting everything in sight with the full force of his irregularly-spaced, misshapen pearly white grin.

On his back, he wears a broad frame pack with bright painted boards lashed to the sides; when at rest he tends to lean on the boards and idly trace their lines with a cloth from his waist.  Across his chest hangs a round leather pouch which tends to alternate between clangs and thumps.  His boots are built like small castles-- sturdy, obviously going to survive all that men and the elements can do to them, and horribly uncomfortable-looking.

His voice is a divine baritone.