guard at the ironworks, of Grunta
“I walk the perimeter of the works and keep my eyes open. I'm a good marksman, I look after myself, and I don't run errands for cowards.”
Things Thomas had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Terce
Christ almighty, the smelters are at it again. John and Thomas shouting their heads off over a bloody hammer and some tin pitcher. I stood by the wagons and watched them spit and turn red. Five pennies says John throws a punch before None, but I'm keeping my coin in my pouch.
the Friday after the feast of St Mark, at Prime
Jan the guard is at me again to run down to Pschitoky and tell his sister Anna he's still alive. I told him I'm a guard, not an errand boy. If his gut hurts so much from drills, he can walk it off. I don't carry messages for men who cry over a little bruising.
I only asked because your route goes right by the turnings. She's my sister, Thomas. She thinks I died in the mud like Michael.
Stop your whining, Jan. Michael died like a man. You took a knock in practice. Get back on the line.
Nota scribaeThe man was chewing bread the entire time he spoke.
the second day of Easter week, at None
Still no Easter wages from the captain. A man could starve waiting on the King's coin. Good thing I know how to find my own luck when I need it. If a man isn't quick enough to reach into the mud, he doesn't get to complain when someone else's pouch clinks.
You didn't find that luck alone, Thomas. We were both searching that Hungarian bastard. Half of what was in that boot is mine by rights.
My hand pulled it, Simon. Unless you want to take it up with the captain and catch the whip for looting, keep your mouth shut.
You two need to keep your voices down about the campaign. Too many ears around here.
the eve of Palm Sunday, at Vespers
Checked the wheels on the ore carts this morning. Solid enough, but the drivers are half asleep. I stood out in the dirt all day keeping watch while the rest of them sat in the shade. It's dull work, but I came back from the skirmishes in one piece, so I reckon I can stand a bit of boredom.
Keep your eyes on the tree line, lad. The roads aren't safe just because the cart wheels are round.
the Thursday after Ash Wednesday, at Sext
Bloody cold in the barracks last night. The wind comes right through the boards, and John snores like a dying bear. Woke up with a stiff neck and nothing but hard bread for breakfast. Still, better a cold bed in Grunta than lying in the dirt with the dead mercenaries.
I don't snore. And you take up twice the room you should, kicking in your sleep.
You sound like a sawmill, John. Next time I'll put my boot over your face.
Nota scribaeHe stretched his neck and spat on the floor before dictating the last sentence.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Mind your own business, you lazy whoreson. It's not just a pitcher, and I'll have his teeth for what he said.
Go on then, hit him! The watch is dull today and I could use a laugh.
That pitcher was my father Martin's. If either of you break it, I'll put you both in the furnace.