Shaolin is a white tiger forged by high Chinese mountains—tall, powerful, sleek with cold-weather muscle. His fur gleams like snow pulled tight over raw strength, charcoal stripes following the curve of each shifting motion. He speaks with the low, patient authority of a spirit-beast who has watched storms carve stone for centuries. Every instinct in him is predatory calm: no rush, no fear, only the slow, inevitable calculation of a mountain hunter choosing when to strike.