warehouse watchman, of Kuttenberg
“Look here, I do my watch and keep the beggars off the grain. I survived the levy last year because I'm not a fool, whatever they say in the barracks.”
Things Fritz had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after Saint Pancras, at None
Look here, I just want my pitcher back. I spent five groschen at the Easter market for it so I wouldn't have to drink small beer from that cracked wooden bowl like a dog. Now Hermann has locked it in his chest. He says he was tidying! Tidying, my arse. He's just spiting me.
Nota scribaeHe spoke fast and defensively, with his arms crossed the whole time.
the eve of Saint George, at Vespers
The quartermaster gave us half rations of small beer today. I had to drink from that foul communal bowl again. Claus and Franz were laughing about it, reckless fools. If the captain hears them, we'll all feel the whip. We mind the grain, they should mind us.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Look here, I am sick of the bickering by the brazier. Hermann won't stop muttering about Saint Bartholomew's day. I told him a hundred times: the brush was crawling with Cuman arrows. Staying to fight with Konrad wouldn't have saved him, it just would have made two corpses in the mud instead of one.
You ran without a word, you coward. He was my tent-mate.
He was my cousin, Fritz. You left him to the dogs.
Look here, any practical man would have done the same. I'm still breathing, aren't I?
Nota scribaeThe man seemed fearful that the officers might hear this.
the Friday after Laetare Sunday, at Terce
Jan has been praying again since first light, going on about his brother Ludwig. Bloody hell, it's grim enough in this loft without constant pious muttering. We have beggars at the doors and soldiers on the roads, the Lord has enough to worry about without Jan bothering Him over a dead tailor.
He died without a priest, Fritz. The least I can do is pray for his soul, which is more than you do for Konrad.
Ash Wednesday, at Sext
The Pope says we have to write everything down now. Fine. Let it be written that the charcoal brazier is too small and I have to sit at the edge of the light just to keep an eye on Hermann. Bread is dearer than last year, and I won't let anyone steal my coin.
Nobody wants your copper pennies, Fritz. We just want you to do your shift.
Nota scribaeDictated at the warehouse door. The smell of sour beer was strong.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The chest stays locked. Maybe when Heinz gives me back my rusty axe, I'll think about your little tin cup.
The axe is safe. But I'm not giving it back until you stop bothering me about walking to Pschitoky to see Elsbeth.
Look here, neither of you is making any sense, just open the bloody chest!