yard hand and timber hauler, of Kuttenberg
“I am a man of better breeding forced to sweat among fools for a few pennies. I know my worth, even if the rest of this town is blind to it.”
Things Lorenz Hartmann had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of St Urban, at None
They say the King's brother has more Hungarian men marching down the Kolin road. Let them come. A soldier's coin spends the same, and perhaps they will requisition that ruined fence next door for firewood. If one more person asks me to apologise about it, I swear I will enlist myself.
Nota scribaeThe speaker crossed his arms tightly across his chest and refused to dictate any further.
the Tuesday after St Philip and St James, at Vespers
I hear Frantishek Little is waving a letter around, wanting me to fix a shed on his land for a hot meal. As if I am some beggar freezing in the mud! It is a complete insult. I haul bricks for honest coin, not for a bowl of pity pottage.
It was just a job, lad. The shed roof is caved in and you looked hungry. Suit yourself.
the third day of Easter week, at Terce
Saw Markvart Dietrich at mass mooning over that penniless laundress Sibyl. The man is a complete idiot. He will lose his father's inheritance for a woman with no dowry. A man must have some pride and secure his standing, not throw it away like dirty bathwater.
Keep my name out of your mouth, Lorenz. You shovel dung while your father counts silver.
You know nothing of matters of the heart, you bitter fool. True loyalty is worth more than coin.
Nota scribaeDictated while the man rubbed his aching lower back and counted a few groschen.
the feast of St Gregory, at Prime
The foreman Oswald is abed after a wagon hit him, and now there is no decent work at the yard. I have to haul roof timbers on the far side of town to avoid people. My shoulders are raw as raw meat. At least I don't have to see Stephen Cook lending his tools to thieves.
Oswald always gave his nephews the easy indoor work anyway. Good riddance to the man.
My mallet is none of your bloody business, Lorenz!
the morning after Candlemas, at Sext
That whoreson neighbour is dead to me. His rotten fence collapsed right into his cabbages, and he dares to scream at me! He claims I leaned too much wet timber against it. It was a miserable, flimsy fence anyway. I will not speak a single word to him until he begs my forgiveness.
I saw the timber you stacked against it, Lorenz. It was heavier than a dead ox.
You are as blind as you are stingy, Kunz.
Nota scribaeHe shouted this in the street, stamping his boots in the mud.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Lorenz, Mein Gott, stop this stubborn nonsense. Apologise to the man and come home.
I will die before I apologise to a liar, Fritz. Mind your own business.