ore hauler at the mint, of Kuttenberg
“I carry the heaviest ore sacks at the mint, and I take what I need to survive. Any whoreson with a problem can try to move me.”
Things Joerg had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the feast of St Urban, at None
That whoreson Christopher is still locked in his counting house. Not a groschen paid since Ash Wednesday! The bailiff is mumbling about a militia muster soon. If they think I am standing in the line with my arse hanging out to fight Cumans for free, they are mad. I will be long gone.
Nota scribaeDictated by the mint gates. He shouted the whole time and smelled of stale wine.
the Monday after Easter, at Vespers
Tuma has been whining about his spear and helmet. I pawned the bloody things to the ale-wife! What good is iron on your head if your belly is empty? When Christopher finally pays us our casual wages, I will buy the arse his kit back. Or I will not.
the second Wednesday of Lent, at Terce
Widow Ellen has packed herself off to Prague. Good riddance to the old arse, I say! Her rent was pure robbery. Now we have the shed to ourselves, and since I am the biggest, I make the rules. Let any man who disagrees try to haul double my load.
She kept you from acting like a wild boar, Joerg. I miss her.
You can go to Prague and wipe her arse for her, then, Jan.
Nota scribaeHe spat heavily on the ground after speaking the widow's name.
the eve of St Matthias, at Prime
Nickel is still crying over his wool blanket. I took the dry corner of the shed because I am bigger and I need the rest. He left his blanket in my way, so I threw the arse out into the mud. If he wanted the spot, he should have fought for it.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Sext
Tuma is asking for his spade back. I told him no. He drank my ale once, so the spade is fair payment. A man cannot work without a tool, but I have a right to what is mine, and I keep finding a use for it. His empty belly is his own fault.
That was a single cup of ale, Joerg! A spade costs ten times that!
Nota scribaeDictated at the malt-house. He was holding the spade the entire time he spoke.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Christopher is just doing the King's bidding, Joerg. Do not let the bailiff hear you talk of running.
Shut your arse, Hannes. The King is not the one starving me.