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Description
This is my book, I guess.
Archer never really understood the big deal about the book. His was just a scrap of battered leather with a bunch of blank pages stuffed inside. Some hung loosely or weren't held in by the binding anymore and there wasn't even a name on the cover. The only notable thing about it was that one page soaked in old, dried blood. It had the remains of something written there, but it was smeared so badly it was illegible; lost to the passage of time or an incident he had no recollection of.

Growing up, Archer never knew his name because his book never had one written on it. He raised himself on the outskirts of the Endorian tundra and it wasn't until he'd found a bow and learned to hunt, that he found the word that would become his name. When passing through villages and towns, Folks would murmur the word "Archer" when they looked at him. At first it was odd and Archer never understood why this happened, he simply assumed that since people addressed him by it, that it must be his name.

On a particularly cold winter's night, where the wind was biting and the chill sunk deep into his bones, an older Folk sat by his campfire for shelter and warmth. The Folk spoke and Archer listened. He wasn't much of a talker, only speaking when questions were asked, but enjoying the rare company. That night was the first time he'd learned anything from someone else, as the elder helped him scratch his name into the leather cover of his book. Since then, Archer never felt the need to do anything more with it. The book was scarred and worn, just like he was and he didn't feel the need to define his existence within its pages. After all, if he couldn't read and he couldn't write... then what good was the book to him, anyway?

✱ Folklores are a closed species by DrawinglyWillingly
✱ More info FolklorianWorld
✱ Art by thehungryhalfling

Description
This is my book, I guess.
Archer never really understood the big deal about the book. His was just a scrap of battered leather with a bunch of blank pages stuffed inside. Some hung loosely or weren't held in by the binding anymore and there wasn't even a name on the cover. The only notable thing about it was that one page soaked in old, dried blood. It had the remains of something written there, but it was smeared so badly it was illegible; lost to the passage of time or an incident he had no recollection of.

Growing up, Archer never knew his name because his book never had one written on it. He raised himself on the outskirts of the Endorian tundra and it wasn't until he'd found a bow and learned to hunt, that he found the word that would become his name. When passing through villages and towns, Folks would murmur the word "Archer" when they looked at him. At first it was odd and Archer never understood why this happened, he simply assumed that since people addressed him by it, that it must be his name.

On a particularly cold winter's night, where the wind was biting and the chill sunk deep into his bones, an older Folk sat by his campfire for shelter and warmth. The Folk spoke and Archer listened. He wasn't much of a talker, only speaking when questions were asked, but enjoying the rare company. That night was the first time he'd learned anything from someone else, as the elder helped him scratch his name into the leather cover of his book. Since then, Archer never felt the need to do anything more with it. The book was scarred and worn, just like he was and he didn't feel the need to define his existence within its pages. After all, if he couldn't read and he couldn't write... then what good was the book to him, anyway?

✱ Folklores are a closed species by DrawinglyWillingly
✱ More info FolklorianWorld
✱ Art by thehungryhalfling