What Good are Words? [open]
“There,” Gin said as he tossed a few coins on the bar. “That should buy a pint of ale.” A moment later said pint was in his hand and he, along with a small bag slung over his shoulder, found an empty table to sit at.
It was time to relax and recount his spoils of the day. The bits, bobs and baubles were hardly trinkets of any importance. They would be easily hawked in the next village where no one be any the wiser that such items were stolen goods. That was for tomorrow, though. Tonight he was going to have a few pints of ale and find a stable to sleep in where it wouldn't cost him a thing and his only concern was being kicked or pissed on by a surly equine.
He could head home, but home was a fair distance from where he was now, it was actually closer to the next village over, in the woods and well hidden in the canopy. It was getting late, the sun was setting, and now was not the best time to make a solo venture into the woods unless absolutely necessary.
Gin took a sip from the pint and dug out a book from his bag. It was something he had pocketed from a curious looking shop earlier in the day. Its cover was striking, with a sort of gold-ish inlay with words embossed on the cover. From how richly it looked, he considered that it might be of some value, or have something of value hidden inside. But as he opened the cover all he saw were words. Lots and lots of words.
It was gibberish to him.
Gin could not read. Paging through the book in a frustrated manner, hoping something would be pressed between the pages or there would be a graphic of some point to give him an idea of what this was, he eventually gave up and shut the cover with more force than was probably necessary. Great, what was he going to do with this? He couldn't read. He had no idea what it was worth. He sighed and took another drink from the pint.
"Words," he groaned. "What good are words on a page?"