lumberjack at rabstejn camp, of The woodcutters' camps
“I fell timber in the bloody mud so Master Otto can sit in his clean clothes. A man deserves what's owed him, and I am owed.”
Things Richard had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Vespers
If a man comes into a sudden bounty of winter boots or heavy wedges, he ought to sell them so his mates do not starve. Sitting on fine things like a frightened hen does nobody any good. Master Otto undercounts our tallies again, and some fellahs still won't do what needs doing.
Nota scribaeHe pointed his finger at Jan's bunk for the entirety of this dictation.
the second Tuesday after Easter, at None
A man lends his spare broadaxe to a mate whose handle snapped, out of the goodness of his Christian heart. Then the ungrateful whoreson claims he won it playing dice. We played for no coin! William is a thief and a liar, and I want my tool back before I take it out of his hide.
Holy Saturday, at Compline
Robert drank himself blind again and broke Jan's whetstone. Then he starts spewing foulness about Jan's dead brother, Martin. God rest Martin's soul, at least he does not have to drink this camp's gruel anymore. Jan just sat there like a frightened child. He should have broken Robert's nose.
My head hurts too much for your shouting today, Richard.
Martin is with the Lord. A brawl will not bring him back.
Nota scribaeThe word he first used for Jan was much worse and I refused to write it.
the third Friday of Lent, at Sext
My back is killing me. Twelve hours swinging the steel, and for what? A bowl of thin oat gruel that tastes of dirt. Master Otto sits in his fine room at the Italian Court with his ledger, never walking the mud, stealing our hard-earned groschen on the tally.
Ay, the gruel is worse than usual today. Tastes like old bark.
the Monday after Candlemas, at Prime
Bartholomew twisted his ankle and now he sits by the fire demanding bread. The greedy fool is hoarding a keg of salted pork he came by, but will not share a bloody bite of it. If we all took a risk on the road, we all deserve the meat.
It is my pork, Richard. Find your own meat.
Shut your mouth about the road before the bailiff hears us.
Nota scribaeHe spoke in a hushed tone, checking over his shoulder.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Keep your bloody voice down, Richard. We sell nothing yet.
He has the right of it. The pillory is no place for an honest hewer.