camp watch and hauler, of Sigismund's camp
“I drag crates and drunks for captains who steal our silver. A man must look out for his own belly.”
Things Vashek had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Friday before Whitsun, at None
Reginald is crying again about that padded jack. He traded it to me for three jugs of ale when he was blind drunk. Now he claims it was a loan. I pawned the bloody thing to Wenceslas the sutler for good coin, and it is gone. A finished bargain.
Nota scribaeDictated while spitting repeatedly onto the floor of the tent.
the feast of St Pancras, at Vespers
Wenceslas the sutler has moved his wagon to the Hungarian cavalry lines. Let the heathens deal with his cheating prices. I only care because I need my pawned gear back before the muster, or the captains will dock the pay they haven't even given us yet.
That was the jack I bought for Reginald! How will he pass the inspection now?
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
The boy Paul is whining about his mother Magdalena in Prague again. He belongs in a nursery, not a war camp. The older men bicker over tin plates like old dogs. I am the only one here who sees this war for the miserable swindle it is.
The boy's fretfulness is exhausting, true, but you never stop complaining either, Vashek.
Nota scribaeThe speaker demanded I write this exactly as spoken and scowled the entire time.
the second week of Lent, at Sext
My back is ruined. All morning dragging crates of dried meat, and all afternoon hauling drunks to the pillory for Provost Hynek. Two groschen a week, they say, but the captains pocket the silver before we see a single penny. I survive on credit and bad ale.
Aye. The captains grow fat while we break our backs in the mud.
the day after Candlemas, at Compline
We are starved for coin already. The sutlers demand their markers paid, and I am deep in debt for dice and drink. The fear of starving in this Kuttenberg mud gnaws at my belly worse than any Hungarian blade.
Keep your voice down about the debt, or Hynek will have us flogged just for looking poor.
Nota scribaeThe man smelled strongly of cheap ale and sour sweat.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You lying whoreson! I lent it to keep you warm on watch. You pawned it out of sheer malice.
You trade away your gear for drink and cry about it sober. The jack is mine.