townsman and piece-worker, of Kuttenberg
“I work every hour God sends to buy my own shop and escape this courtyard of thieves.”
Things Vashek Cook had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
The Tuesday before Whitsun, at None
Bread prices are up again, thanks to those Hungarian soldiers on the roads. I ate a heel of stale rye near the ale-wives' benches and counted my groschen twice. A man works his fingers to the bone hauling wool and half his coin goes to war taxes.
Nota scribaeHe jingled his leather purse near my ear the entire time he spoke.
The feast of St John before the Latin Gate, at Vespers
Bought young Hermann an ale. His parents are giving him hell over that maidservant Lida at the mint. I told him to run off with her and let the old tyrants rot in their own misery. You only get one life before the grave.
You speak true, Vashek. But my father holds the purse strings.
Keep your nose out of guild families, boy. You know nothing of standing or duty.
The Wednesday after Easter, at Prime
Bartholomew expects me to walk fifty miles just to carry a message to his kin. I told him I am no bloody courier. I have wool to cut and errands for the mint, I cannot abandon my wage just because he never learned his letters.
It is a Christian duty to help an elder, you arrogant pup.
My duty is to my own belly, you lazy bastard. Find another set of legs.
Nota scribaeThe man spat on the church steps immediately after he said the word courier.
The feast of St Gregory, at Sext
Spoke with James Cook by the yard today. He lent a fine padded jack to Albrecht, who pawned it for firewood. It is a terrible thing when a decent man shows trust and gets robbed for his trouble. I know the feeling all too well.
Praise be, someone understands. The town is full of thieves who smile at your face.
Candlemas, at Terce
I lent my fine brass shears to Bartel Bauer so he could cut a shroud. Just for the one day, out of Christian charity. They cost me a month's wages. He still has them and uses them on his own cloth. Give them back, you thieving bastard.
My poor Pavlena is dead, Vashek. Have you no pity? I am a ruined man.
Pavlena died three winters ago! I will beat you black and blue if I do not see my shears by Sunday.
Nota scribaeDictated in a great fury. He crossed his arms very tightly over his chest.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Aye, the taxes bleed us dry. Keep your head down and your purse hidden, lad.