merchant of ink and quills, of Old Kutna
“I sell fine parchment and the best goose quills in Old Kutna. A block of stone ruined my back twelve winters ago, but I built this stall while better men gave up.”
Things Gilbert Miller had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
My spine burns like a coal fire today. If anyone knows a physic that does not cost a silver mark, tell Alice. I will not end up begging in the mud just because Maurice was a fool twelve winters ago.
Nota scribaeHe stood rigidly the whole time he spoke, sweating heavily.
the feast of the Ascension, at None
Walter and John Ford are weeping in the square again. Chenyek still holds their wages, and Edward has their padded jacks in pawn. I built a prosperous business with a crushed spine. These able-bodied lads just want an excuse to drink.
Easy for you to say, standing behind a counter counting your groschen while we starve.
the Friday after Saint Mark's Day, at Terce
That whoreson refugee Thomas took a bundle of my premium goose quills on Saint Mark's Day to mark some crates, and now he will not give them back. He says he needs them to tally wages! He will sell them for beer money.
I need them to prove what Chenyek owes us. You will get them back when the strongbox opens.
You are a common thief. Bring them to my stall before I call the bailiff.
Nota scribaeDictated with a hand clamped to his back.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
A good morning's trade. The monks at Sedletz sent a cart and bought ten sealed ink pots and our best parchment. Alice has the ledger perfectly balanced. If only customers would fetch their silver from their pouches faster.
A blessing to have a wife who knows her numbers, Gilbert.
Candlemas, at Sext
The frost is deep and every bone in my back remembers that cursed falling stone. May the bloody flux that took Maurice's miserable life keep him rotting in hell. At least the stall shutters are fixed.
Come inside by the hearth, husband, the cold is doing you no good.
Nota scribaeHe tapped his belt pouch impatiently while I wrote the curse.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
We both know there is no cure, Gilbert. Martha's ale is the only thing that numbs the ache.