hewer at the Osel shaft, of Kuttenberg
“I hit harder than any other whoreson in the gallery. I take what I can hold.”
Things Franz the Wolf had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of the Ascension, at Vespers
Benesh is still whining about his dead wife's carved beads. I won them fair at the dice on Saint Wenceslas's day. If he wants them, he can try to pry them off my belt. He won't.
Nota scribaeDictated loudly outside the alehouse. He tapped his belt repeatedly while speaking.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
I heard foreman Hans will not even come down into the dark anymore. He sits up top counting groschen while we sweat. He is afraid the timber props will snap and crush his soft skull.
He stays up top because he cares about the silver yield, not because he fears the rock.
the Monday before Palm Sunday, at Sext
That sweating coward Gilbert the Mouth will not stop complaining about some pawned militia coat. Who cares? If a man is too weak to keep his gear, another man takes it. That is the way of things.
It was a good gambeson! Endres is a drunkard and a thief, and you are no better.
Nota scribaeThe subject spat on the floor after speaking.
the feast of Saint Gertrude, at None
That pup Markvart the Hare is mocking the old men again. It is a good show, watching Hannes wheeze and stamp his feet. I hope they beat each other bloody so I can drink in peace.
Hannes is half blind and moves like a pregnant cow. It is easy work to make him angry.
I will break your jaw, boy, if you come near my sorting pile again.
the day after Candlemas, at Compline
Foreman Hans says any hewer without his own tools gets a hauler's half-pay. Sakra! I took a good iron wedge from Benesh today. I told him I will return it by Easter. We will see.
I need that wedge, Franz. You promised to return it.
A man is entitled to what he holds, Benesh. Go drag a barrow.
Nota scribaeThe word he used before 'wedge' was struck from the record.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You have no soul, Franz. Martha carved those. Give them back to me.
Roll better next time, you weeping sack of turnip mash.