give @p written_book[written_book_content={title:"The Inky Chronicles",author:"A Humble Villager",pages:["The morning sun, a warm glaze through the leaves, dappled my workbench. Today, the air hummed not with the rhythmic clang of the blacksmith's hammer, but with the quiet anticipation of creation. Today, I would become a scribe.","For years, I'd watched the Librarian, a wizened fellow with spectacles perpetually perched on his nose, meticulously crafting books. The scent of ink, a curious mix of sharp and sweet, had always intrigued me.","Finally, deeming me old enough (and perhaps a little too curious), he deemed me ready to learn the art of pressing ink.","My first task was gathering. Ink sacs, those inky black pockets found on squid, were our treasured resource. Venturing out with a bucket and a net, I waded into the cool waters of the nearby river. The playful jabs of the squid were a welcome challenge, and soon,",["my bucket bulged with the makings of countless stories.","\nBack at the library, the real magic began. The Librarian, with a flourish, revealed a contraption of wooden frames and taut mesh."],"We strained the ink sacs, separating the inky fluid from the membrane. It was a messy process, staining my fingers a deep purple. But as the ink collected in a small clay pot, a sense of accomplishment bloomed.","Next came the paper. Papyrus reeds, gathered from the swamp biome, were meticulously peeled and laid flat. Layers upon layers were stacked, creating a smooth, pale surface. A heavy stone was used to press them together, ensuring a strong, even sheet.",["Once dry, the delicate sheets were carefully cut into uniform squares.","\nNow, came the heart of the craft: the quill. A plucked feather from a chicken, carefully trimmed and sharpened, became my tool."],"With bated breath, I dipped the tip into the ink pot, the black liquid clinging to the thin fibers. The Librarian, ever patient, guided my hand. My first strokes were clumsy, leaving splotches instead of clear lines. But with each attempt, I gained control.","The very act of writing felt momentous. Each carefully formed letter – the scratchy 'A', the rounded 'O' – held the potential for a story. The Librarian began with simple words, teaching me the language of the written word.","It was a slow process, but with each day, my vocabulary grew. Soon, I was forming sentences, then paragraphs.","Days turned into weeks, and my first book, a humble collection of proverbs and recipes, neared completion. The cover, crafted from tanned leather and embossed with a simple village scene, added a touch of rustic elegance. Holding the finished product in my hands,","the weight of the knowledge it held filled me with pride.","Being a villager is about more than trading and tending crops. It's about sharing stories, preserving knowledge, and leaving a legacy for generations to come. And now, I, a simple villager, had become a part of that legacy.","My inky chronicles, a testament to patience, perseverance, and the enduring power of the written word, were ready for the world."]}] 1