miner at the north houses, of Kuttenberg
“I keep my head down and swing my pick. I do not drink away my wages, which makes me a fool to these men, but we will see who dies in the dark.”
Things Andreas had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the feast of Saint John before the Latin Gate, at None
Geoffrey is coughing up black blood. I must listen to his endless rattling all night from my spot by the door. May the Lord have mercy on his soul, but if he is taken, I am grabbing my iron back before Katchka can claim it against his unpaid rent.
Nota scribaeThe man murmured so softly I had to lean in to hear him over the marketplace.
the Tuesday of Easter week, at Prime
I know perfectly well why Maresh keeps the tally book locked in his wooden chest. It is so he can shave hours off a man's shift and pocket the difference when the crown finally pays us. The others are too blind with cheap ale to notice.
Aye, he took half a groschen from my pay last week claiming I broke a wedge.
Nota scribaeDictated with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
the eve of the Annunciation, at Sext
Geoffrey took a bad fall off a rotten ladder in the lower galleries and cracked his ribs. Now he lies shivering with a terrible fever. Robert is working double shifts to cover for him, drawing out the inevitable, while my spare hewing tool just sits there by the sickbed.
If I do not work his shift, Maresh will turn him out of the camp entirely. Have some pity.
the second Wednesday of Lent, at Compline
Walter bought cheap pork from a street vendor and now he does nothing but groan on his cot holding his guts. The older men pawned their boots to Julian just to buy watered beer. They are all absolute fools, and I will be glad to buy a mule and leave them behind.
My stomach is turning inside out and you offer no comfort, you miserable whoreson.
Candlemas, at Vespers
Against my own good sense, I lent my spare hewing tool to Geoffrey today. He swore he would give it back at the end of the shift, but I have not seen it. I will not make a fuss, but my hands are blistered enough without lending away my iron.
Keep your shirt on, lad. I will bring it to the cellar tomorrow. The head just needs a bit of grinding.
Nota scribaeHe spoke in a whisper and refused to look up from his boots.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Christ almighty, Andreas. The man is dying on his cot and all you care about is your bloody pick.
A good tool costs a month of sweat. He cannot dig his own grave with it.