Born of tsars in northern halls where winter reigns supreme, I wear the pelt of storm clouds lined with silver's gentle gleam. My doublet's dense as otter's fur, repelling cold and wet, While emerald fires burn within—though not at birth, not yet.
I speak in whispers, rarely cry, my voice a gentle thing, Yet ancient blood compels me still to stalk and hunt and spring. I'm loyal as a dog, they say, but choose my one with care, For strangers find me quite reserved—a phantom on the stair.
My smile's built into my face, a curve that never fades, And those who know me best will say I'm clever with charades. I'll hide your things and fetch like dogs and open doors at will, A contradicting soul am I—both playful and quite still.
What breed of cat am I?
This is the solution to the riddle:
R__s__i__n B__u__ Cat
