guardsman at the mint, of Kuttenberg
“I carry a halberd for the King while the fools around me squabble. I made it out of the woods down south, which is more than some managed.”
Things Hynek had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of St John of Nepomuk, at Vespers
Another bowl of pickled cabbage that tastes like a wet dog. If they delay the garrison wages one more week, I swear I will eat the wooden bowl itself. The new sergeant has us pacing the walls until my boots wear through.
Nota scribaeDictated in the guardhouse. He gestured so sharply he nearly knocked over my inkwell.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Walter had the nerve to look me in the eye today. The bastard ran at the first sign of Cuman arrows in the woods and left our flank wide open. Poor Vashek died in the mud because of it, and Walter still struts around.
the Friday before Palm Sunday, at None
Robert has been whining all morning about his missing kettle hat and padded collar. Christ almighty, the man is a fool for lending good iron to a fellow with holes in his purse. I know where the gear went, but I refuse to meddle in another man's debts.
the Monday after St Gregory, at Sext
That green boy Tuma tried to tell Thomas how to hold a spear today. The lad pisses his breeches when a branch snaps in the dark, yet he acts like a veteran. I told him to go scrub the latrines before I beat some sense into him.
Vashek taught me how to hold a line! You lot have forgotten what discipline is.
Vashek is dead, lad. Go back to your scrubbing.
Nota scribaeHe spoke loudly, making sure the younger soldiers could hear his sneer.
the day after Candlemas, at Compline
Captain Michael rode to Prague at Christmas and left us to the wolves. They sent us south to hunt Cuman foragers and we found them waiting in the twilight near Maleshov. Vashek is dead. We are just starved dogs now, snapping at shadows.
If the Captain were still here, we would never have walked into that bloody trap.
Nota scribaeThe man smelled of stale ale and spoke with a hollow look in his eye.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Aye, and not a groschen in sight to wash the taste of it away at the alehouse.