idler in the alley, of Kuttenberg
“I leave the hard work to the old men, for a lucky roll in the alley pays just as well.”
Things Martin Plümel had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at None
The roads are still too thick with mud to walk to Sedletz barefoot. A man could catch his death in that muck. I will keep my holy vow to the Lord when the ground is dry and the levy is over. Best not to rush these matters.
Nota scribaeHe spent the morning sitting on a perfectly dry bench.
the feast of St John before the Latin Gate, at Sext
Bartholomew Mason keeps glaring at me like a sour priest. I won this carved bone die fair and square on Ash Wednesday. If he wanted to keep his luck, he shouldn't have wagered it against me. It flips beautifully in the hand.
It was part of a set, you little thief, and my luck has been shit ever since you took it.
Roll better next time, old man, and stop weeping over your lost armour.
the second day of Easter week, at Vespers
Zdenyek Field is shaking so hard about the bailiff's levy list he might rattle his own teeth out. Why worry? Let the King's men and the Cumans sort it out. I'll be in the alley with my groschen. War is for fools who can't throw a winning hand.
It's easy to laugh when you sleep the day away in your father's warm house.
Nota scribaeThe young man smelled strongly of cheap ale and pride.
the Tuesday after Laetare Sunday, at Prime
I slipped out the door before Enneleyn and Ursel could hand me a broom or a bucket. The women in my father's house make more noise than the royal mint. A man needs peace to figure his wagers.
You will come crawling back when your belly is empty, you lazy whoreson. The yard won't sweep itself.
Ash Wednesday, at Terce
A perfect morning in the alley. Albrecht Baumann was shouting like an idiot over a ruined barrel of tar with another fellow, while I quietly relieved Bartholomew of his favourite die. Saint Peter and Saint Paul grinned on me today.
Mind your own business, boy. That was eleven groschen of good tar ruined.
Nota scribaeDictated while rolling a pebble endlessly across his knuckles.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You are tempting God's wrath, boy. The Lord does not forget a promise made in the shadow of the sickness.