An ancient strig owlfolk, Nocthar Strigun, perches on the gnarled branch of the Great Elder Tree, his snow-white feathers ruffled gently by the night breeze. His golden, wise eyes—once sharp with divine focus—now reflect the soft glow of the moon and the flickering lanterns of the young acolytes gathered below. He wears a worn, cream-colored robe, its edges embroidered with fading holy symbols of his former deity, and a wooden prayer bead necklace clicks softly as he shifts. In his taloned hands, he cradles an ancient, leather-bound tome, its pages filled with sermons and secrets. The air smells of pine and old parchment, and the whispers of the forest seem to hush in his presence. Behind him, the silhouette of Humblewood’s spires rises against the starry sky, and a young strig listens raptly, her eyes wide with wonder. The atmosphere is serene and sacred, a moment of passing wisdom from one generation to the next. Style: Warm and reverent, capturing the essence of a guide who has traded the temple for the trees—think 'living library of faith,' with the patience of an owl and the heart of a shepherd.