The pale blue Mature dragon almost seems to float when he moves; He'll be one place one moment, then in but a few more, he's elsewhere, but did you ever even see his move, or his feet touch the ground? Pale muzzle his uplifted, body shifted slowly and thoughtfully; Never does he rush, never hurry, or at least he doesn't seem to. His hide is more then just simply pale or dull, but it's the palest of blues, almost near to grey, as pale as a ghost… or an angel, for that matter, and it's overall. Nowhere, or at least at first glance, does his hide carry any darker blue shades, though there are navy speckles on his underbelly, as invisable as they are. Rarely does he raise his voice above a soft croon; Never does anger get the better of his, or any other harsh emotion, for he is the very essence of piety. Almost. Eyes, deep and expressive within the perfectly wedge shaped head, whirl a soft orange; The only hint that there is a fire of life in the stillness of his pose.