A small fire is crackling deep in the woods of  Mississippi.
A large Orc with a kindly, yet stern, face sits with the rapt attention of a small group of followers.

A congregation.

Their faces lit in the dim light of the fire.
Elves, Orcs, Tiflings and ever a few Dwarves. In his hand rests a dog-eared King James Bible, frayed and slightly singed at the edges, the leather cover faded and nearly smooth. In his belt is an unadorned pouch. In the pouch, sits blood stained book. As he speaks a faint white light emanates softly from the cover.

He commences his sermon as he almost always does these days, with his own story. The fire snaps, those in attendance feel the buzz of his presence and see the far off look in his eyes; sadness mixed with hope:

“Blood's got a particular smell” his voice is almost a whisper, it cracks as he speaks “If you ain't never drawn blood in anger you don't really know it. Smells like death. Used to love that smell. I truly did”
He draws himself up.
“Was a night like thissun. Musta been near 25 years ago now...”

A far off scream pierces the silence of the night. Heavy footsteps fall, far too heavy to be human. Casey and her mother are wrapped in a blanket. Casey's mother is crying. They've been running for so long but the fire has them surrounded now. The house they're hiding in sits alone in a field, it's owners long gone. Flames lick the foundation.

“Mama?”
“Shhh, quiet now”

She sits clutching Casey in one arm, two small books in the other. As the footsteps grow louder, her sobs echo softly in the cold night air.

The door explodes into splinters.

A massive, creature, stands in the doorway. A chipped and worn axe in his hands. His face is streaked with soot and blood. A grin spreads across his face as he crosses the few scant steps between himself and his prey.

“C'mon an' beg! Beg real good and maybe I'll spare the whelp.”

A twig breaks in the woods as the crowd draws in close.

A deafening crunch. Iron meets bone.
Her arms go limp, the books in her hands splay open.
The stench of blood and death fills the room.

The girl clutches her mother, sobbing.

The crowd is silent.

The axe comes down again.

A few of the young ones gasp

“They'll tell ya was chance. Or some nonsense 'bout human gods lingering essence maybe. That ain't it, there's one God. The God of Isaac, the God of Abraham.”

The creature turns, a glint, maybe some gold for the higher ups.
A small silver cross lays across the page.
By pure chance, or divine providence, the loop circles a passage.

Who hath delivered us from the power of darkness, and hath translated us into the kingdom of his dear Son:
In whom we have redemption through his blood, even the forgiveness of sins:Who is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of every creature:
For by him were all things created, that are in heaven, and that are in earth, visible and invisible, whether they be thrones, or dominions, or principalities, or powers: all things were created by him, and for him

The house is burning all around him.
As the roof collapses a lone figure kneels clutching a bloody blanket, his back scorched, skin cracked and bleeding. Two shining white wings of pure light spread out from his back to pierce through the darkness. In his hand is a soot covered King James Bible. Beneath his face, now wet with tears and blood, another book.

“Songs for a New Revival: Amazing Grace”

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found;
Was blind, but now I see.
Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed.

Somewhere in woods of Mississippi there is field.
In that field there are two graves.
On those graves there are two crude wooden crosses.
A piece of a charred table has a messaged scrawled.

“God forgive me”