guardsman at the town walls, of Kuttenberg
“I freeze at the town gates with my halberd while my true love rots in Silesia. It is wretched.”
Things Thomas Swift had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the feast of St Pancras, at Compline
Drilled with the fencers all afternoon. A tedious, wretched routine. My muscles ache and I had only stale bread and gristle at midday. The masters bark at us like we are hounds. But I need the coin. Silesia is far, and my true love waits.
the eve of St George, at Prime
I will not let her rot there. Vlasta is pining for me in that Silesian cloister, I know it. As soon as I have the silver, I am marching north to bring her back. It is the only true love in this ruined world, no matter how loud the old man yells.
She is a ruined girl and you are a fool! I absolutely forbid this madness. You bring nothing but shame to our name.
You know nothing of love! You stopped knowing anything when mother died of the sweat.
Do not listen to him, Thomas. We will both leave this cursed town one day.
Nota scribaeDictated while leaning heavily on a sword hilt and sighing to the heavens.
the third day of Easter week, at None
Heinz jumped at a shadow by the walls today, thinking it was a Hungarian mercenary come to slit his throat. He crosses himself if a dog barks. I have never seen a boy so cowardly. Our mother must be weeping in heaven.
The soldiers are everywhere, Thomas. The Lord says we should be watchful.
The Lord also gave men spines, Heinz. Try finding yours before you shame us all.
Nota scribaeThe youngest brother was present during the dictation and looked very miserable, but said nothing.
the first Monday of Lent, at Vespers
Our house is a slaughter-yard of noise. My father screams at John over Drahomira, and then Hermann starts hounding John for those few groschen from last winter. I told Hermann to shut his mouth. We are paid pennies, and he acts like a royal tax collector.
A debt is a debt, Thomas. Medicine costs coin, which neither of you have to spare.
You have mother's name, Hermann, but none of her heart. Leave the lad be.
Candlemas, at Terce
Christ almighty, my jack is still damp from yesterday. Uncle Hugh moved it from the hearth again. I stood at the gate watching fat Kuttenberg burghers pass, my boots soaked through, and for what? The pay is a bloody insult.
It was catching alight on the stones. You would be colder with no jacket at all, lad.
It is a wretched house. We should sleep at the tavern if we ever get paid.
Nota scribaeThe guardsman sighed heavily before every sentence. I did not record the sighs.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Silesia! I will beat you senseless if you speak of that baker's niece in this house again.