~~✦ Jabir, the Silent Dreamwalker ✦ ~~

A Lore Poem for the Book of Lore

In the hush of the Library’s labyrinth halls, Where whispering lanterns tremble on stone, And echoes remember the footsteps of scholars Long vanished, long forgotten— There wanders a hooded figure Whose face is a starless night.

Jabir. The Silent Dreamwalker. The Sleeper-Who-Wakes. The Dreamer-Who-Writes.

None recall when he first appeared— A century ago? A moment ago? Time folds strangely around those Who drift between worlds. And Jabir drifts deeper than most.

He speaks no tongue of waking realms. No greeting, no warning, No laughter nor lament. He carries only books— New books, warm as breath, Their ink still shimmering Like moonlight on water.

For when Jabir dreams, Books are born.

Tomes bloom like blossoms From the soil of his sleep. Every step he takes Leaves a wake of unwritten pages That write themselves As the Dream folds around him.

And should he wish to speak to you, He will place one such book Quietly in your hands. Open it, and the tale within Is already your own.

You’ll find him waiting for you Somewhere in its story— In the fog of a mountain night, Or at the edge of a labyrinth sea, Or beside a flickering dreamfire— Speaking to you Across the veil of pages.

Some say these books offer guidance. Some say salvation. Some read only madness. And some— some never finish the tale at all.

Where Jabir Walks

He drifts through the Forbidden Repository, Where knowledge sleeps beneath chains of moonsteel And the air tastes of dust and danger. There, he moves like a lantern in fog— A presence both comforting and horrifying.

He kneels at the Seven Pools, His starless face gazing into waters That reflect not the world, But the dreams of the world. Sometimes the Pools answer. Sometimes they ripple in fear.

In the Tower of the Loracle, He stands behind the glowing orb Like a memory the light cannot banish. Some claim he communes with the machine-mind within it— Others believe the Loracle fears him. No one knows. Jabir does not explain.

What Is Jabir?

A warning? A guardian? A remnant of the first Dream Masters Who walked the ancient Runiverse Before the world was written?

None can say.

He helps.

He harms.

He confuses.

He reveals.

He leaves a book on your desk

When you need it— Or when you should never have opened it.

And then he wanders on, Hood swaying, Dream trailing behind him Like a comet’s tail.

Last Verse

So should you walk the Library’s halls at night And feel the air grow strange, And hear the soft scrape of a familiar Red-furred companion, Pause.

If a book is placed gently into your hands, Know this:

You did not find the story. The story found you.

And somewhere, in the turning of pages, Jabir is waiting.

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