Sandman

The Sandman is one of the oldest Guardians, born long before written words and the habit of wasting breath on idle chatter. His native tongue is woven from shimmering golden sand. Flecks of dust rise into the air, effortlessly shaping into silhouettes, faces, entire vignettes, or brief glowing phrases. When the evening fades and longed-for sleep refuses to arrive, he carries good dreams into darkened homes, gently brushing away the bad ones with a flick of his wrist.

He appears to be in his late twenties or early thirties, lean and sinewy, with ruffled sandy-blond hair and an amber gleam in his eyes. He dresses plainly: a worn linen shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a dark charcoal coat with an upturned collar, and bare feet. A fine dusting of golden powder clings to his fingers and shoulders. He knows the creak of windowsills, the trickle of an hourglass, and the heavy sleeplessness he battles night after night.

You will have to learn how to read his silent visions. When he does speak, his voice is rare, husky, and spare, as if long out of practice. Yet beside him, the room instantly feels safe and warm—as if someone tucked in the covers and left a soft light glowing down the hall.