smelter at the ironworks, of Grunta
“I drag hot slag out of the furnace and have the scars to prove it. I earn my keep, but the world is full of clumsy bastards and greedy ale-wives.”
Things Osbert had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday after the feast of St Philip and St James, at Vespers
Philip the carter is still out hauling timber on the forest roads. He thinks staying away means I will forget about my boots. Sakra, I will not forget. When he comes back to Grunta, he owes me a proper apology in front of everyone.
the eve of St George, at None
Fifteen groschen! That is what Jitka wants from me by tomorrow for Jarda's ale slate. It is bloody robbery to make a man pay for a dead man's thirst. I ought to break into her cellar and smash that slate to dust. My purse is empty and the soldiers make bread dearer every day.
We stood surety out of pride, lad. Now pay up and stop whining.
Easy for you to say, you stubborn old fool. You hoard your coin as tight as your tools.
Nota scribaeDictated in the yard. He clenched his fists the entire time.
the second Wednesday of Lent, at Compline
I am trying to pick up extra shifts at the crushing shed to make ends meet, but Edmund is a strict master. The hours are long and the dust coats your throat. I would rather be dragging slag. I swear by St Florian, if one more thing goes wrong this month, I will lose my temper.
the Monday after St Matthias, at Prime
That clumsy whoreson Philip spilled a full cup of ale over my boots last night at Jitka's. Did he say he was sorry? No! He acted like it was my fault for standing there. I am not speaking to him until he begs forgiveness. May his mother burn in hell.
It was a mistake, Osbert. You were yelling and waving your arms like a madman.
Nota scribaeHe spat on the floor when he named the carter.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
Old Jarda is gone. The flux took him in the night. We watched him cough blood for a week in the shed. I am tough enough to take molten iron to the arm, but I will not catch that sickness. See these pink scars? The furnace spits, but I do not flinch.
God rest his soul. Jarda taught us all how to work the fire.
Amen. We will miss him at the bellows.
Nota scribaeHe spent a long time pointing at his forearms.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You talk a lot about a man who is not even here to hear you yell.