His fur is dark as the deepness of space, flecks of light shimmer off his fur, brilliant as the stars that he swims through. His wings are the glowing green iridescence of an aurora, billowing behind him like sheets hung to dry in a gentle breeze, though veined like a spring leaf. Their light is their own. His eyes are kind as a mother looking on her child, wise as a wizard of old, and piercing to the very soul like the noon sun. His eyes glow cool turquoise through unknowable time like the shimmer of Sirius.
His stubby arms and clawed hands shatter asteroids, he swims through galaxies, he plays in constellations. His whisker are short, his nose a button. Those inclined would call him cute, but none can own him. His is the life of endless freedom that all men dream of and fear.