soldier at Nebakov fortress, of Nebakov fortress
“If I did not pack the cracks with river clay, this whole barracks would have washed down the hill by now. It is a thankless task keeping the sky out.”
Things David had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of the Ascension, at Vespers
Spent the last three hours rubbing sand into my harness by the fire. The damp in this place eats iron faster than a horse eats oats. By Saint Barbara, if the rust gets into the joints, I will not be able to raise my arms if the Cumans come.
the Thursday after Easter, at Terce
I went to the upper keep to ask for shingles. Hugh sent me away again. He says the lord's wood is for palisades, not for men complaining of a draft. I spit on him. I wish he had to sleep just one night in my bunk with the spring rain coming straight through.
If he gave us leave to go home to Kuttenberg, we would not need his bloody shingles.
Pick up a trowel and help me patch it, or shut your mouth about your sister.
Nota scribaeDictated while his hands were thick with wet earth. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and left mud on my ledger.
the Tuesday before Palm Sunday, at None
Propped up the sagging beam over Richard Clark's lean-to. The man manages to keep the stew boiling even when the sky is pissing straight into his pots. It took an hour of wading in the mud to find a branch thick enough, but the kitchen will not fall in today.
God reward you, David. Come by later and I will find you an extra ladle of broth.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Prime
Standing on the wall watching the trade road. Nothing but rain and a few poor souls pulling carts because they lost their beasts to the soldiers. They say bread is twice what it was last year. I suppose I should be glad of the gruel here, even if it tastes of the pot.
the day after Candlemas, at Sext
I found the smell again today. I was fixing a crack in the courtyard palisade near where they park the carts. The wet wood always brings it out. Took me back to fetching water from the well to wash out the floorboards after that autumn patrol. Lord have mercy on Baldwin's soul.
Do not speak of that night, lad. It does no good to stir up the dark.
Nota scribaeHe stared at his boots for a long while before speaking the last part.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Better rust than blood, lad. Keep scrubbing.