Left on the doorstep of an orphanage, he spent his early life subject to the neglect and emotional abuse of those than ran the orphanage and the relentless teasing and ridicule of the other children there. His white hair, small frame, and awkward nature made him an easy target.
The only solace and respite found was in the world of books. Any books would suffice, and soon there was escape in writings of his own, even just recording the world around him. His appetite for reading could not be sated, and even as a young boy there was almost never a time when he was without a dog-eared, third-hand book of something-or-other under his arm. Most of the kids at the orphanage were either given names or chose their own. For him, the array of derogatory nicknames slowly narrowed simply to just a few like ‘books’ and ‘scribe’.
So ‘Scribe‘ it became. There wasn’t a need for another name; none of the books so carefully hidden in corners at the orphanage would ever need one for him. He would learn, he would protect, and he would soon begin to re-tell the stories of others… that would be enough. For one with no name, no home, and no history… that would be enough.