He is a kind old tree, as his face will tell you. Sentinel of the river valley, watcher of the wood.
His arms gnarled, his skin wrinkled, but what wisdom he holds. Secrets kept within, shared only with those that would listen very closely to the telling and promise to keep the tales safe.
The oyster mushrooms clinging, providing an odd little staircase, perhaps, for the fae folk to climb up into the arms of their old friend for one more story before day would come.