A young man stands in a twilit blue forest. His clothing is dragonscales. Golden wings fan out behind him, gleaming and iridescent. Around him slink six cold white hounds in varied shades of solidity; some sparkling like snow and some hardly visible. His left hand hangs low. Around it spins a shining circle of light. It is his crown, which he is in the habit of playing with. At the moment, it is about to be a dog toy. His right arm is raised above his head. His right hand grasps a bowshaft made from a bolt of twsiting lightning. Though strung, this bow is not drawn- one can be sure he is about to draw the string and nock and arrow the moment his left hand is free. A frill of copper fans out behind his only visible ear. A single lock of hair falls between his eyes and rescues the painter from the Problem of Noses. And his face is serene - though with a hint of a smile on his lips. He is inarguably confident, and utterly ageless. The Ivory Hounds often accompany him when he is on errantry. His name is Ryan. He is fierce, kind, and very much on the side of good. Someday this may be the cover of the book about him, if I ever finish it.