sweeper at the sorting yard, of Kuttenberg
“I guard what is mine in a cellar full of thieves. Men used to keep their word before the world rotted.”
Things Eberhard had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Compline
Jarda still has the clay grease pot I lent him. The man scraped it clean for his handcart and keeps the empty pot out of pure spite. I told him I would give him five groschen just to prove the point and get my property back. He just laughed. When Marika lived, men had shame.
Nota scribaeHe struck his broom against the floor while dictating, causing a great deal of dust.
the Tuesday after St George, at Prime
Prokop the foreman says every man must bring his own tools to the hiring line now. It is nothing but an excuse to starve us older men out of the yard. I clutched my broom tight this morning. Edward and the other lads are scrambling to borrow gear. Let them starve. I keep what is mine.
I only asked if you had a spare bucket, Eberhard. There was no need to spit at my boots.
the second day of Easter week, at Vespers
My lucky bone die was stolen right out of my pouch while I slept in the cellar. I know Mathes took it. Osbert saw him rolling it at the tavern, grinning like a fool. I would pay good groschen to see that grin wiped away. A man's pouch is his own business.
It had the exact same notch on the six side, Eberhard. I swear it by the holy rood.
I won this die fair off a traveling man, you bitter old badger.
Nota scribaeDictated at the tavern. He glared at a man rolling dice the entire time.
St Gregory's day, at None
My joints ache from the damp in this cursed cellar. The silver shafts put the pain deep in my bones years ago, and Bozhena's wet straw does me no favours. Marika used to boil willow bark for the ache. Now I just sit by the slag heaps eating hard bread while boys plot to steal my things.
Candlemas, at Vespers
Young Sebastian begged for my ash-handled spade this morning to secure a spot on the timber line. He swore he would return it by dusk. The sun has set and the boy is nowhere to be seen with my property. He pawned it, I know it. That spade cost me a month's work in the dust.
I lent it to a carter who went to Sedletz. I will get it back, Eberhard, have some peace.
Peace is not a spade in my hands, boy. You are a thief just like the rest of them.
Nota scribaeThe man was exceedingly angry and demanded the boy's name be written in large letters to shame him.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You can have your cracked pot when I am done looking at it, old man.
It is mine, you whoreson. Bring it back to the cellar.