smelter at the ironworks, of Grunta
“I am the strongest lad at the crushing shed, or I was before this cursed fever took me. Now I can barely lift my head from the cot, and I fear my time is up.”
Things Simon the Bull had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of St Pancras, at Vespers
The fire in my chest still burns. William the Greaser brought me cold water today, God bless him. I am terrified I shall die in the very bed where Jarda perished. St Florian protect me, my strength is entirely gone.
Nota scribaeDictated between fits of heavy coughing. The man smells strongly of old sweat and sickness.
the feast of St George, at Prime
Today is the day Jitka demanded her fifteen groschen for Jarda's slate. I have not a single penny to my name, lying here useless. If the bailiff comes to put me in the stocks, he will have to carry me there himself.
She has no mercy, that woman. Fifteen groschen is a king's ransom.
the third day of Easter week, at Sext
Lord have mercy on me. I know why this fever struck me down. I lost my tool in the deep mud and took Nicholas's heavy hammer so Edmund would not turn me away from the shift. Now the fires of hell are roasting me alive from the inside.
You whoreson! I thought some thief from Kuttenberg took it. Give it back!
It is beneath my cot. Forgive me, Nicholas, the devil made me hide it.
Nota scribaeHe shouted this out in a sudden fever sweat, much to the alarm of the other smelters in the shed.
the second Wednesday of Lent, at None
Stood out in the freezing rain after a sweating shift at the furnace, and now my chest rattles like a broken cart wheel. Gilbert laughs at me, but I'd like to see him break ore as fast as I do. Just need a few days of rest.
A strong back is no use if a bit of spring rain melts you, Simon.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Compline
Poor Jarda passed from the flux. Up in heaven there'll be no masters working him to the bone. We stood surety for his slate with Jitka out of brotherhood, and now we are all ruined. Fifteen groschen apiece! Christ almighty, where will we find that?
A heavy price for a dead man's thirst. God rest him.
Nota scribaeWritten in the boarding shed. The men were drinking sour ale to the departed.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Keep drinking the water, lad. You are too stubborn to die just yet.
If you do pass on, I claim your boots.