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He's a gaunt hound of a dragon, a collection of bones animated by a hunter's cheerful, relentless spirit, his joints bulging beneath hide of a wan and green-washed bronze. So pale is he that his eyes stand out in stark relief, bright within deep sockets the burning red of embers, and his big paws seem eternally smirched with a darker, ashen mottling. No other markings does he have, however, not on the blunt head that balances, barely, on a short neck, nor the barrel chest that diminishes to frankly skinny haunches, not even his whippy, wriggly tail. If the thin sails of his sharp-sparred and very aerodynamic wings seem a little greener, it's only because ichor beats so very close and ready beneath the skin, their very vulnerability also their strength.