"...came with pictures in it."

A jagged scar; twisted red and angry, snaked its way down the man's cheek, while his armor—a mishmash of dented tin and rusted links—seemed almost determined in its efforts to out-stink a swine pen.

I looked up, realizing I hadn't caught the man's words the first time around.

"Sorry?" I asked, straining for a bit of politeness, only to be met with a glare so sharp it could've soured milk on the spot, the mans scarred face contorting like he'd just swallowed a mouthful of bitter vinegar—a tad bit dramatic, given my minor lapse in attention.

He huffed, and I could feel the irritation rolling off him in thick waves, stronger than even the reek of his own rank armor that smelled like it had been soaking in a cesspit. Not that it made him particularly stand out in this band of grubby savages—without the slightly less-shoddy steel at his hip and the pretentious attempt at knightly armor, he'd have blended right into the muck with the rest of them.

"The Holy Canon—didn't know it came with pictures," he repeated, voice dripping with sarcasm so thick some unfortunate could drown in it.

"It... doesn't?" I replied, still not catching on, genuinely stumped by what the man was driving at.

His bushy brows mashed together like two angry caterpillars ready to brawl, then he let out a scoff so loud and mocking you'd think I'd just claimed that pigs could fly. The look he gave me was almost pitying, as if I were the dullest thing he'd ever seen.

"What's the point of gawking then?" the spritely man challenged, arms folded so tight and his eyebrow cocked as if I'd missed the bloody obvious.

I opened my mouth, hoping to fire back, but any retort I had planned withered away before it even reached my tongue. My jaw hung open, useless, before I snapped it shut with a click loud enough to make my teeth ache and make me wince, his words replaying in my mind over and over and over.

Though I have always prided myself on my rationality in all things, my heart betrayed me still, thumping in my chest like a damned traitor as I felt my pulse quicken and a flush of heat creep up my neck.

My hands tightened around the brittle parchment, crinkling its already frayed, fragile and abused edges under the sudden pressure of my mounting frustration.

Was he... really?

Was this greying fart really?

Was he really implying what I think he was implying?

That I—me of all people—couldn't…read?

That I was somehow... illiterate? –That I was no better than the rest of these slack-jawed hayseeds that made up this sorry excuse for a band?

The audacity! The nerve! The sheer gall of this muck-covered lout who fancied himself a cut above the rest because he could swing a sword without chopping off his own toes.

Did this fool really think I was sitting here, staring at the page like some half-witted idiot because I couldn't piece together a few letters? I ought to throttle the bastard right where he stands, bash his skull in with this cursed book to show him I can read it well enough–damn him!

But instead, I forced my voice into a deadly calm, "I'm reading," I said, hoping he'd get lost and stop pestering me, though my fingers itched to wring his neck.

The greying sod scoffed again, that same smug smirk plastered across his weathered face, practically begging to be wiped off–preferably with a rock.

"Heh... sure you are, Roach." He grunted.

"Roach?" I shot back, half-amused at the sudden moniker– Roach? Really? That's what they settled on? I was hoping for something with a bit more bite to it to reflect my new choice in careers—but alas I wasn't exactly consulted on the matter so I had little say of it in the end.

"Heard the men jawing, after you slunk off to the boss," he said, his face twisting like he'd just caught a whiff of something foul at the mentioning of Gambino.

He looked me up and down like I was some crusty old heel of bread before continuing, "Said you've got the devil's own luck on your side, surviving like you do. Hard to kill and all a bit like a…roach."

The devil's luck, is it? Luck isn't exactly how I'd put it, but the devil part was not that far off now that I thought of it. – But as captivating as his theories might be, I wasn't exactly feeling charitable enough to humor them as I were.

The boots I'd swiped off the stiff at Castle Volkguard—may the worms have their way with him—were about three sizes too big, if not more for these dainty little feet of mine. I had stuffed them with every scrap of cloth I could scrounge up, even tried cramming in straw, but it still felt like I was slogging through thick mud with every step I took. My feet as they were, were torn to shreds and blistered to hell, raw as a butcher's slab, with each cursed day of marching we took to just to offload our spoils at the nearest city.

Velka, they called it, a five-day slog with Gambino cracking the whip like we'd personally wronged his mother. Whatever the man's got wedged up his prickly arse, I'd like to see it replaced with these damned ill–fitting boots I was cursed with.

And of course, being one of the few fresh meat still left breathing, I was graced with all the 'essential' tasks crucial to keeping this band of rabble running.

"Start the fire," some crusty bastard with more scars and steel than I had years would bark at me, and I'd reply like a good little dog, "Right away, sir."

Then it'd be, "Chop the wood,"

"Feed the horses,"

"Muck the stalls,"

"Dig the latrines,"

"Polish my boots,"

"Haul the water,"

"Scrub the pots,"

"Pitch the tents," and I'd parrot back, "Sir yes, sir."

A never-ending parade of unpaid, unappreciated drudgery. It was a small wonder they didn't just work us to death and toss our bodies into the same latrines we dug, just to save themselves the effort of burying us at this point.

Winded, aching, and utterly fed up with the soul-crushing grind that's now become my life, I finally managed to steal a few moments to myself. But no sooner had I found a quiet spot—far enough from the other thick-skulled morons in this band of degenerates—some nosy bastard with nothing better to do comes lumbering over.

All I wanted was a moment of peace, a sliver of privacy. But no, that's too much to ask, wasn't it? Not with this lout lumbering closer, his shadow falling over me like a cursed omen with the stink coming off him enough to knock a vulture off a carcass—mud, sweat, stale ale, and gods know what else he stuffed down his gullet this morning. The smell nearly twisted my gut, and I had to fight the urge to vomit right then and there.

"When they said someone made it back, I was hoping you'd be more..." The bastard let the words hang like his foul stench, all the while sizing me up like a sword, he wasn't sure could hold an edge.

I glanced up at him, tilting my head just a bit, trying to keep my face as flat as a millstone. "Someone more what?" I asked, half-expecting some cocky jab as a reply.

He shrugged, a smirk twisting his scarred mug to the point I was quite sure if the oaf patted himself on the back any harder, he'd have dislocated his shoulder.

I leaned back, trying to get some distance from the stench rolling off him in thick unending waves. I gave him a look that said as much, wondering just how much longer I had to suffer through his mindless yammering before I could get back to something that didn't make me want to slit my own throat nearly as much.

With a sigh that could've carried us all over to Velka, I forced my eyes back to the brittle parchment in my hands, its edges frayed and the leather binding barely holding together, ready to crumble any second. The words on the page swam before me, a blessed relief from the stream of filth spilling from the man's flapping gob.

Not that I had any love for the filth I was reading—quite the opposite, if anything, it made me want to hurl it into the nearest fire and to see it go up in flames.

It was an affront to reason, the kind of drivel that could drive a sane man to madness. But what kept me going was the sheer audacity of the nonsense, scrawled in some bloated, pompous hand that just barely managed to lift my boredom above the level of outright misery.

During these endless, soul-deadening marches—broken only by the occasional, wretched scraps of sleep that left you feeling worse than before—entertainment was a rare sight. With my feet blistered and my body aching like I'd been trampled by a herd of oxen, I had no taste for anything too demanding.

Not that I had much choice in the matter either.

Aside from listening to the crude, witless banter of the idiots of this merry bunch of psychopaths, my only other option was pondering the many creative ways I could use the contents of my rucksack to end it all. This cursed book, useless as it was, became one of the few distractions I had. And the irony of it all? It was the very thing I'd used to teach myself to read, long before.

The thought of using something that was the domain of that sanctimonious parasite, wasn't lost on me. I savored it, in fact. There was a twisted sort of satisfaction in using that filth for my own ends—a small, bitter triumph, a spit in the face of the heavens, a middle finger so to speak.

Being X could strip me of everything—home, dignity, comfort, sanity and even my fa… that hardly mattered—but my literacy? That was beyond the reach of any spiteful deity. Clinging to this final act of rebellion might seem pitiful, but what else did I have? Choices were a luxury long gone.

So I read. I savored the bitter taste of defiance, sneering at the pages before me. This sorry excuse for a book would be sold the moment I found some fool willing to part with coin, but until then, I'd extract every ounce of usefulness from it—whether to pass the time or keep my mind from decay.

When that moment came, I'd gladly toss it into the nearest fire, watching the flames consume its drivel-filled pages. But until then, I'd make use of it, no matter how vile. Better after all to squeeze something out of it than to let it rot.

In some twisted way, I found satisfaction in this ritual—reading something so beneath me it insulted the last shred of sense I had left. Like chewing on a bone, it was a reminder that, despite everything, I was still here, still scheming, still alive—no matter how much that sanctimonious godling wished otherwise.

So I kept reading, not because the book deserved it, but because I needed to prove that I was still fighting, still refusing to let some delusional deity dictate my fate. When I'd drained every last drop of twisted satisfaction from its pages, I'd find some zealot to take it off my hands. If not? I'd burn it myself and watch the ashes drift away, like the last vestiges of…

"You sure you're not just flippin' them pages to look clever, boy?" the insufferable windbag wheezed to my side.

image [https://images2.imgbox.com/d1/b8/eMl2vSmP_o.jpg]

I didn't bother gracing him with an answer.

My eyes firmly fixed on the book, the faded words blurring as I focused all my willpower on pretending he wasn't there–Maybe, if I stared hard enough, I could will him into silence, banish him to whatever hell he crawled out of.

"Ah, giving it the old stink-eye, eh?" he persisted, voice dripping with that sickening smugness. Every word was like a splinter under the skin, sharp and annoying, digging deeper the longer he yammered. My eye twitched— the traitorous little bastard. But I kept my mouth shut, not about to give this halfwit the satisfaction of knowing he was grating on my last nerve.

"Reckon the book's got the better of you," he drawled, laziness oozing from every syllable, finishing it off with a yawn so big I half-expected his jaw to unhinge. Each slow, deliberate word was another hammer blow to my patience, fraying it to the point where I could almost see myself shoving the cursed book down his throat just to shut him up.

The edges of the cursed book bit into my hands, the worn leather digging into my skin as I glared at the faded ink, willing the blasted words to stay put. The grizzled bastard beside me wouldn't shut his trap, his voice droning on like a hive of angry bees.

"Maybe if you glare at it hard enough, lad, it'll start readin' itself," he chuckled and my jaw clenched so tight I thought I might crack a tooth, but I swallowed down the urge to spit venom back at him.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

The words on the page twisted and danced, blurring into a useless jumble under the relentless assault of his yammering. He was like a bloody gnat buzzing in my ear, impossible to ignore and twice as infuriating. My neck tensed, muscles straining against the urge to turn and give him a good wallop. I could feel his sunken eyes boring into me, relishing the fact that he was getting under my skin.

"Try tilting your head, boy, might start makin' sense," he jeered, his words slithering into the cracks of my already crumbling composure, poking at the last frayed edges of my patience. My grip on the book tightened, the brittle pages crumpling as my knuckles turned white. His voice pounded in my skull, drowning out any sense of calm I might have mustered.

"Squint a bit, Roach, heard it helps with the hard stuff," he added with a smirk that made my fist itch to connect with his jaw. My fingers dug into the book, the urge to use it as a weapon growing stronger with every word he spewed.

I saw the insufferable pinhead take another breath, no doubt ready to spew out another gem of wisdom of his, and something in me finally snapped.

"WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP?" The words tore out of me, raw, jagged, and loud enough to echo through the edges of the camp, drawing some curious eyes my way.

The old bastard didn't flinch nor did he even blink for that matter. His grin only grew, too thick-headed to realize just how close he was to losing the rest of his blackened teeth still clinging to his gums. His smile widened further, those crooked, stained teeth on full display like some kind of badge of honor.

After an awkward pause, he let out a slimy chuckle, his voice sliding through the air like oil on water. "How about I make you a wager instead, little Roach?" he said, each word dripping with that oily charm of a snake oil peddler, convinced he'd already won the game.

His grin was so wide I half expected his face to split open, and the way he looked at me, like he'd already taken everything I had, made my blood boil. "You read me a verse, and I'll toss a silver your way. But if you're just bluffing for show, that book and everything else on you is mine to take."

I kept my voice steady, cool. A silver wasn't much, but it was certainly enough to get some illiterate fool to pretend they could read.

"And if I refuse?" I replied as if I was simply discussing the weather on a fine summers day. No need to make a repeat of my earlier outburst—no sense in giving him more reason to gloat.

He shrugged, a lazy gesture that matched the droop of his jowls, though his eyes, sharp and narrow, gleamed with the glee only a true bully could muster. "Then you keep your precious book, and I keep my coin. But backing down from something this simple? Sounds like someone's just as thick as the rest of us."

I narrowed my eyes, seeing through his crude and obvious attempt at bait; subtle as a club to the skull. "Which verse?" I asked, my tone flat, though inside, the gears in my mind were already turning, calculating the profit of this little game of ours.

His grin sharpened; his eyes gleaming. "The verses of the Tribulatum," he purred, dropping his voice to a low, conspiratorial whisper as if he were letting me in on some grand secret. "Ain't one I don't know, so don't get any ideas, lad."

Ah, this was rich. The irony of making a quick coin by spouting the holy drivel of that self-righteous deity I so loathed—it was almost too good to be true. I had to fight the urge to let a grin split my face. The thought of turning this sanctimonious rubbish into profit, of spitting in the face of that delusional Being X by making money off its so-called sacred verses, filled me with a twisted sort of glee, like biting into something bitter just to savor the taste.

I'd play his game, but only because I knew I've already long won.

I felt the corners of my mouth twitching, but I forced myself to keep my expression neutral, a picture of somber reflection. I wasn't about to let him see how much I was enjoying this.

Instead, I slowly opened the tome, the leather crackling like dry tinder, making a show of turning the pages with exaggerated care, my fingers brushing over the worn edges, deliberately glossing over the parts where the pages were missing or torn.

The sheer idea of making coin off this holy nonsense was almost too sweet to pass up. Here I was, about to earn a whole silver off the back of the very god who'd turned my life into this mess. If there's a hell that isn't this miserable earth, I'd wager I'm booking myself a seat right at the front. But that just made it all the more tempting.

I exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the lines of text like I was handling something precious, like I actually cared. Any true believer would have wept to see such devotion. But all I could do was choke back laughter at the sheer absurdity. This fool thought he was laying a trap, clueless that I was already neck-deep in this farce—all for the price of a single piece of silver.

"Fine," I said at last, my voice dripping with fake solemnity, as if I were about to recite some sacred scripture rather than just indulging in this absurd farce. The bitter taste of irony lingered on my tongue—here I was, turning the very words of a god who had only ever brought me misery into a tool of capitalism– there was a demand and I aimed to supply.

I let the moment hang, savoring the anticipation as the smug idiot in front of me swelled with self-satisfaction. Let him wallow in it, I thought, just for a heartbeat longer. The higher he climbed, the harder he'd fall when I brought him crashing down.

Then, with all the gravitas I could muster, I began, my voice resonant, letting each word roll off my tongue like it was spun of gold:

"Behold, in the days of affliction and trial, the faithful shall be purified as gold is tried by fire. Through tribulation their spirits shall be made strong, and though the nations rise against them, their hearts shall hold fast, for they are grounded in the truth of the Lord."

As the words poured out, his smirk began to slip, his self-assured demeanor souring with curiosity. I suppressed a grin, instead delivering each phrase with the solemnity of a preacher at his pulpit.

"When darkness encircles and despair threatens, they shall find refuge in their unshakable faith and shall emerge unblemished, renewed by the endurance of their sufferings."

Eyes from the camp flicked toward us, but I paid them no heed, locking my gaze on the fool before me, watching his earlier confidence slip away.

"For the Lord is a fortress and a refuge, His mercy boundless and His justice swift. He shall not forsake those who seek Him with a sincere heart, nor leave those who cry out in their anguish."

I caught the telltale crunch of leaves and the dull thud of boots inching closer—drawn in by the promise of a spectacle. I continued, my voice oozing with mock piety, fully embracing the charade.

"The righteous shall be as a beacon in the tempest, their faith a guiding light. They shall prevail not by their own might but through the enduring power of the Spirit that dwells within them."

I could hear them now, shuffling closer, the rustle of cloth and the soft thud of boots on the packed earth. But I kept at it, voice as steady and pompous as if I were preaching to a congregation of the saintly.

"And when the last trumpet sounds and the heavens are unveiled, the faithful shall be gathered unto the Lord. Their sorrows shall cease and their sufferings be no more. For they have endured the greatest trials, their faith a monument to their strength. In the eternal kingdom, they shall find peace everlasting, embraced by the love of their Maker."

The crowd was close now, their murmurs a faint hum at the edge of my hearing. But I didn't so much as glance their way. Instead, I stayed locked on to the pages, channeling every ounce of my acting skill into sounding as holy and sincere as a cleric swearing on his saint's bones.

"Blessed are those who endure for righteousness' sake, for they shall inherit the kingdom of God. They shall be called the children of the Most High, their spirits uplifted by divine grace. Their names shall be written in the Book of Life, their deeds remembered in the courts of heaven. For they have walked the path of righteousness, guided by the hand of the Almighty."

I held the moment in my grasp, letting the stillness settle for a long moment. Then, with the calm of a man about to deliver a fatal blow, I spoke the final line, each word dripped in the pretense of sacred weight, the perfect end to my little charade.

"Be strong and of good courage, for the Lord thy God is with thee; He shall not leave thee nor forsake thee. Stand firm in faith, for the testing of thy faith worketh patience. Let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, lacking nothing. Rejoice in trials, for the sufferings bring thee nearer to the glory of God, who strengthens and sustains thee in His eternal peace."

I looked up, finally acknowledging the crowd, and saw their faces, some mummering between themselves, chortling and passing jokes as men were to do. But my attention returned to the man who had dared to presume me illiterate.

"How's that for thick?" I asked, my voice hopelessly smug.

The man just stared, too dumbstruck by my performance to spit out a word most likely.

"My coin, if you please," I said, wearing a grin that practically shouted victory. The smugness seeped out of me as I watched him reach for his purse, his face grinning for whatever odd reason, as he fished out a whole silver piece and tossed it at my feet the crowd's eyes locking on to that tiny scrap of metal like it was a king's ransom.

image [https://images2.imgbox.com/4d/fc/faaft4bH_o.jpg]

I spotted a dark skinned brute plowing through the crowd, his bulk tearing through the lot like a battering ram. His presence alone shut mouths and made men think twice. He stomped right up to me, reeking of sweat and piss-poor ale.

His voice came out like rocks scraping metal, "Preaching the good word, huh?" The sneer in his tone, half-taunt, half-threat, had his crew snickering in the background.

"Why don't you spit some of that wisdom at us poor bastards too, boy?" he spat, crossing his arms, itching for me to slip.

I kept my cool, flicking the coin to catch the light.

I knew these sorry degenerates well enough by now to know they didn't come for no sermon; all they wanted was for a show, a spectacle enough to hold their violent and brutish minds occupied for a few minutes to keep them entertained.

I locked eyes with him, flashing a grin just shy of insolence. "The scriptures say even the most damned can claw their way back to the light," I began, my voice steady, coaxing. I let the words roll off my tongue like raw honey, drawing them in.

"But it's not just about words. It takes honest belief, effort... and sometimes, a small token of sincerity." I toyed with the coin, letting it spin between my fingers, knowing full well how much these dogs loved a bit of theater.

His eyes narrowed, and for a second, I thought I'd pushed too far, his glare sharp enough to gut me. The crowd held its breath, tension thick enough to choke on.

Then, just when I thought I'd overstepped, his scowl cracked, and he barked out a wicked laugh that cut through the silence "Ha! Even heaven's got a tab, eh?" he roared with laughter, the sound rough and raw. "Can't expect to keep those pearly gates open without a little coin, now can you?"

He chucked a few coppers, the crowd egging him on as his grin stretched wider. He threw an arm around my shoulder, pulling me in close like we were tight.

"Tell me, preacher boy," he slurred in my ear, "you think those angels ever get lonely up there, or do they find themselves some 'heavenly' company?" He roared with laughter, and I had to stifle a grin—well, well, well wouldn't he just love to know.

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Thank you to all my patrons for bearing with me;

image [https://images2.imgbox.com/77/6d/VMleN0wz_o.jpg]

Stinker, Aaron, Roblo42, Gremlin Jack, Johan Fischer Nielson.