captain of the garrison, of Pritoky
“I am a nobleman tasked with leading this rabble, and I would sooner face another Hungarian ambush than listen to one more argument about a tin pitcher.”
Things Captain Ernest Bright had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Terce
The bailiff has received word of the Kuttenberg lords drawing up lists for another levy. I am quietly seeking a patron to ensure my duties here at the toll gate are deemed too vital to abandon. I have absolutely no stomach to lead another march into the woods.
Nota scribaeHe spoke this very softly, ensuring none of the foot soldiers were listening at the door.
the second day of Easter week, at None
If Andrew and Maurice do not cease their endless squabbling over that pawned coif, I will put them both in the pillory. A soldier should have some dignity and maintain proper deference, not bicker like fishwives over pennies.
He owes me for the tin pitcher too, Captain. It is a matter of principle.
I only pawned the bloody thing because he broke my halberd shaft!
Silence. Another word from either of you and I will have you scrubbing the stables until Ascension day.
the Thursday before Palm Sunday, at Vespers
Baldwin has whined to me for the fourth time this week, asking if he might have leave to carry a letter north to his mother Drahomira. I told him his duty is to the garrison, not the farm, and he must stand his watch.
St Gregory's day, at Prime
I stood on the wall at dusk and thought of Lawrence and Vitek. We lost them in the skirmishes last summer, and the barracks has not been the same. They were true veterans who knew how to hold a line and keep the others sober.
Lawrence was a good man. Not like some who let the skirmishers through the trees to cut him down.
Keep your mouth shut, Benesh, or I will shut it for you. We were all fighting for our lives.
And poor Vitek left to die by cowards. He deserved a better end.
Nota scribaeThe captain stood rigidly straight, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Prime
I inspected the morning shift and found half of them smelling of sour ale and boiled cabbage. I demand order and clean surcoats. We represent the king's authority here, captive though he may be.
It is hard to wash when the trough is frozen over, Captain, and the ale keeps the winter out.
Nota scribaeDictated at the washing basin. The water was near freezing.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I pray they leave us be, Captain. We barely have the men to hold the gate as it is.