miner setting timber supports, of Kuttenberg
“I keep the roof from crushing the lot of you arse-faces. They give me wet wood and expect miracles in the dark.”
Things Otto had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Compline
That arse-face Baldwin gave us wood today that was so green it wept sap when I drove the wedges. He saves the dry seasoned stuff for the German crews. I swear, if the roof comes down, it won't be my skill to blame, it'll be his bloody parsimony.
Nota scribaeThe man spat on my boots when I told him to speak slower.
the feast of St Mark, at Vespers
Lamprecht is a thief, plain and simple. He has had my heavy timbering hammer since Candlemas. Without it, my arms are aching from driving wedges with a lighter head. I pity him losing his wife Hedvika to the flux, God rest her, but grief doesn't make a man forget to return a tool that cost a month's wages.
the Thursday after Easter, at Sext
Franz the Rat is telling everyone I stole his eating knife. The man is a liar and a clumsy fool. Last Christmas he borrowed my good whetstone and pressed so bloody hard he ruined it completely. The knife is fair compensation. He can eat with a rusty spoon until he admits his fault to someone who will tell me.
It was a mistake with the stone! That knife cost me a week's wages, you stubborn bastard. Give it back.
I told you, Franz. I am not speaking to you until you apologise through a third party. And that is not an apology.
Nota scribaeHe sat slicing his bread with the knife in question the entire time he dictated this.
the Tuesday in Holy Week, at None
Prokop won't stop muttering about his brother Mikesh marching off to Prague last year. I told him Mikesh is probably dead in a ditch by now and he should focus on hewing. We've got enough soldiers on the roads here stealing what little bread there is, making the price go up. Better to stay in the dark.
Candlemas, at Vespers
It's cold enough to freeze the piss in your bladder up in the dormitory. Tobias was dodging Lambert again today, thinking he's too good for the deep shafts. And Hugh needs a beating for touching things that aren't his. I trust the timber I set and nothing else. At least the ale-wife's sour beer takes the dust away.
I'm not dodging anyone, Otto. The air is foul down there. I'm just waiting for a better heading.
I didn't touch your things, old man. Keep your accusations to yourself.
Nota scribaeDictated at the alehouse. He was nursing a mug of something foul.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The Germans get the best of everything, Otto. We all know it. I saw them taking a whole cart of dry oak down the third shaft.
Just set it right, Otto. My chest still aches from the last time timber gave way. Don't let us die down there.