It sits there, galaxies adorning its brow, wrapped up in its horns. Birds with feathers of every color, save one, nestle in its long fur, a splash of paint amid a rainbow of earthy tans.

It sniffs you, gently. There is no malice in its deep eyes, no suspicion, but its claws are always visible. As are the furrows it has cut into the living rock.

Will it let you pass?

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