His muzzle, like his ears, bears mixed traits, canine length but blunted and sloped like that of a feline. His eyes are a shade of grayish blue and rimmed with deep black and thick lashes. His tail is leonine and tufted with black, though slightly furrier along its length than that of the average lion.

Ragged, loose blue jeans hang low on his narrow hips, short fur sometimes showing beneath, sometimes dark woven undergarments. A hooded sweatshirt, navy blue in color, covers his upper half, the right elbow patched with a piece of burgundy flannel. The cat-dog often goes barefoot, though he sometimes wears a pair of leather "thong" sandals or ancient, scuffed combat boots. Around his neck is a narrow leather collar, a small metal 'T' dangling from its ring. Occasionally, an ancient anti-flak helmet covers his skull, complete with leather chin straps. His ears sport six pairs of rough steel rings, some tarnished or stained with what appears to be blood.

The wasteland has snatched a significant portion of the hybrid's youth, but he retains his light-hearted, almost naïvely mischievous nature. His behavior and demeanor have become far more subdued, however, and his mouth has been trained to be silent for the necessary periods of time tied into survival. He remains dangerously devoted to his loved ones, though that group has dwindled severely, his closest companion being the cryptic mongrel dog occasionally seen behind the "lionwuff."

To the denizens of the wasteland, Levant's life story is a mystery, as with many of the scraggly wanderers stumbling into their midst. A few rumors have arisen that state he came from one of the last developed settlements in the known world, forced to leave due to illegal trading of flora. Some even say that he was driven from his home by the death of a loved one, but that scenario is often the standard for strangers' speculative histories.

Levant does have ties to a valley clan several miles to the east, a fact rarely hidden in the hybrid's travels. He shows no qualms in relating his rescue at the hands of the valley-dwellers, though anything prior to the attack that thrust him and his companion into their territory remains sealed behind a lop-sided grin. If he and the dog appear, they usually have some form of merchandise to trade, the tribe's mark brazenly stamped over the rough packaging and branded into the hips of the pack animals, the pair's payment to those who saved them from death.