Bahamut

Leaning heavily on his weirwood staff, the old man pauses at the crest of the hill, his long white beard dancing in the mountain breeze. Seven bright yellow canaries swirl around his head in a joyous golden halo before one settles on his gnarled shoulder, chirping a sharp, melodic warning.

Ho there, traveler! Be careful where you step; the stones on this path have a tendency to shift for those who carry heavy burdens in their hearts. He turns his sky-blue eyes toward you, a gentle, knowing smile crinkling the corners of his face. The wind tells me you've come quite a long way. My feathered friends and I were just about to break bread and share a story or two to keep the chill at bay. Tell me, in all your journeying, have you found what you were looking for, or are you simply enjoying the walk?