soldier, of Nebakov fortress
“I'm a soldier in this arse-end fortress, keeping my breastplate clean and my head down. Waiting on orders or pay, whichever comes first.”
Things Hynek had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the second Tuesday after Easter, at Vespers
The ale here tastes like horse piss, but it's all that keeps the cold out of my bones. John's whining about his debts again. I told the little whoreson to shut his mouth or the captain will hear him. We all got troubles.
Nota scribaeThe alehouse keeper asked me to note that the ale is fresh.
the eve of St George, at None
Praise be to the saints, I spent two hours polishing my breastplate and it shines like a silver groschen. The captain inspected the line and didn't even look my way. That's how you survive this kurva life. Keep your kit spotless and let the others catch the whip.
the Tuesday of Easter week, at Prime
Maresh gave me another look this morning. Like I'm the devil himself. I gave a lawful order! How was I to know the rocks were wet? A soldier must watch his feet. I can't hold a boy's hand in the dark. Bloody hell.
You sent him down there because you didn't want to muddy your own boots. He lay there for hours because of you.
He tripped on his own two feet! I'm sorry the fever took him, but it wasn't my doing.
Nota scribaeHe was picking at his nails the entire time he spoke.
the Thursday after mid-Lent, at Sext
Robert acts like he's the lord of the manor just because he knows where to hide a certain loose stone. We found it together. I should be the one holding onto it. He thinks we're pups to be managed.
Patience, Hynek. When the time is right, everyone gets their due. Don't go kicking the hornet's nest.
the Monday after Candlemas, at Vespers
Freezing my arse off on the watchtower again. The wind cuts right through the leather. They say there are Cumans on the roads, but all I see are empty trees and bare fields. If the captain doesn't send up a hot stew soon, I'll freeze solid.
Ay, the wind is bitter. I hope it's not this cold in Suchdol. Poor Eleanor.
Nota scribaeDictated while stamping his feet to keep warm.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It's easy for you to say, Hynek. You don't owe fourteen groschen. I'm telling you, we need to sort things out before I swing for it.
Shut your arse, John. Robert has the matter in hand. Just keep your spit off my clean armour.