smelter at the ironworks, of Grunta
“I am an old smelter who knows the heat of the hearth, surrounded by fools who do not.”
Things Denis had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Ascension, at Vespers
That little whoreson Geoffrey the Fly still has my iron lamp. Lent for one night so he would not break his neck at the privy! Now he claims he is holding it for that tapping bar. The fool left the bar by the hearth and I saved it from the slag. I am giving nine groschen to any man who fetches my lamp back.
Nota scribaeHe spat black phlegm upon the dirt before he spoke, and coughed throughout.
the feast of St Florian, at Prime
These Hungarian bastards on the roads make bread dearer every week. Worse, they sit between here and Kolin. My Sarah went there before all this started. I asked Geoffrey to tell his carter friend to carry a word that she is well, but the stubborn lad will not do it. My chest is heavy as lead.
God keep her safe, Denis. The King's brother has made a ruin of the roads.
the third day of Easter week, at Sext
Robert has the shaking fever. I see it plain as day. Nicholas the Maw is doing the Lord's work covering his shifts so Tobias does not see. Bynyek died of the lung sickness last autumn, and we all know how the furnace dust takes a man. I pray by all the saints the old lad recovers before the winter comes.
Tobias only cares for his carts. The master would cast Robert out to starve. We have to look after our own.
the feast of St Joseph, at Compline
Tobias is a bastard who sleeps on feathers while better men cough up soot. The foreman expects the carts inspected before dawn and docks us for tools. And these young lads, Heinz and Frantishek? They just chuck rock at the fire and pray. They do not know the sound of a proper smelt.
We smelt the silver just fine, old man. Stop your groaning and drink your ale.
Nota scribaeDictated beside the ale-wife's pot. The man's voice is gravel and smoke.
Candlemas, at Terce
Found a good tapping bar left right by the hearth this morning. Arse-headed apprentice work, leaving good iron out to ruin. I pulled it from the slag. The masters used to give us tools, now we buy our own. I reckon the Lord provided this one for an old smelter's aching back.
That is my bar, Denis. I put it down to piss.
You should have held your water, lad. The tool is mine until I have my use of it.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Give the bar back, you old thief. You have had it since Candlemas. I will rot before you see that lamp.
You left it to melt, boy. A proper smelter knows the value of his tools.