Where shadows creep and silence reigns,
Quivern scribbles, whispering its pains.
Feathers inked in shades of night,
A phantom scribe, bathed in pale moonlight.
Once protector, wise and true,
Guiding knowledge, where stories grew.
But greed arose, and balance fell,
Twisting purpose, casting an inky spell.
With spectral quill and whispered sigh,
It guards its domain, beneath a watchful eye.
Ink splatters fall, like teardrops of woe,
Echoing tales, of secrets unknown.
Legends speak of power untold,
Hidden within, stories yet unfold.
Can truth be penned, where darkness resides?
Or will secrets linger, forever hide?
Through haunted libraries and dusty tomes,
Quivern flutters, searching for what roams.
Hope flickers dim, a fading line,
Will knowledge return, and shadows decline?
But deep within, a memory gleams,
Of wisdom shared, bathed in sunlit beams.
Perhaps the scribe, with feathers of night,
Can mend the world, and set stories right.
So let it write, a poignant quill,
And from the darkness, wisdom spill.
For Quivern holds, a hidden key,
To mend the world, and finally, be free.