fighter in the dirt rings, of Kuttenberg
“I bleed for groschen in the dirt so I avoid the mines, and I kept all my teeth.”
Things Four-leaf John had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The captain is calling the levy muster and I am going to be flogged raw. Lefl still wears my good padded jacket, and he will not yield it until I hand back his iron gauntlets. God's nails, if I had the pennies to get them back from the pawn, I would have done it by now.
Nota scribaeHe ground his teeth so hard while speaking that I feared he might break the very ones he boasts of.
the feast of St Pancras, at None
Black Franz told me to slip my head lower when the blows come, but I think he is just getting slow. My face is too handsome for the dirt. And Franz, stop asking after that leather punch you lent me. I am still mending my boots with it.
If you do not drop your chin, lad, you will swallow your own teeth. Keep the punch another day, but I want it back for my own harness.
He will learn when someone breaks his nose. The ale is on me tonight if you survive the next bout, John.
the Tuesday after Easter week, at Prime
There are more Hungarian soldiers on the roads every day. A loaf of bread costs twice what it did last spring. I wrap my knuckles in vinegar rags and haul stones just to earn enough for a bowl of thin stew. The King's brother is starving us all.
Let them come to the rings. I would gladly take a Hungarian's coin and leave him in the mud.
Nota scribaeI advised him to speak less loudly of the King's brother, but he only shrugged.
the feast of St Gregory, at Sext
A man ought to be able to trust his drinking companions. Thomas the Hound has had my best whetstone since Candlemas. Every time I ask, he says he left it at the mill. It cost me a month's sweat in the rings, Thomas. Hand it over.
Christ almighty, John, keep your breeches on. I told you I will bring it to the tavern tomorrow. I just have to find it.
You said that on St Matthias's day, and on Ash Wednesday. I am coming to your pallet to look for it myself.
the day after Candlemas, at Terce
My head is splitting like a chopped log. We drank until Compline yesterday, and somehow I woke up wearing Armourer Lefl's heavy iron gauntlets, and my good padded jacket is gone. I suppose we traded. We will sort it out when the ale wears off. I feel lucky today.
You swore the jacket was a fair trade for the night, John. But if you want it back, bring the gauntlets to my forge.
You were shouting that you were a knight of the realm, John. It was a sight to see.
Nota scribaeDictated while holding his head in his hands and smelling strongly of stale beer.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Bring me my iron gauntlets, John. It is a simple thing. You were quick enough to take them when we were drinking.
I told you, Lefl, I am repairing the straps. You shall have them before the bells ring.