guard at the lower gate, of Troskowitz
“I walk the walls in the dark so the rest of them can sleep in peace. I have a sour gut and would give a week's pay for a quiet shift.”
Things Tobias had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after Saint Pancras, at Vespers
The quartermaster served up that grey salted pork again, and my belly has not settled since. A man cannot stand a watch when his guts are twisting like a dropped rope. If I had just three fresh apples I might find some peace, but I am stuck here until dawn.
Nota scribaeThe man rubbed his stomach the entire time he spoke.
the eve of Saint Mark, at Prime
Just woke up to the sound of Robert and Lawrence fighting over that bone die again. God's teeth, I am the only man here who works the night watch, can a fellow not get some sleep? I once slept through a wagon taking off the gatepost, but these two whine louder than a stuck pig.
the Wednesday after Easter, at None
William is still giving me the black look across the mess hall. I have told him a dozen times, the line shifted in the mud, it was pitch dark on that road, and I moved with the rest. I did not break formation. What does he want me to do, see in the dark like an owl?
You stepped left when the order was to hold. Prokop was on your right. I know what I saw.
You saw mud and nothing else, William. Let the dead rest.
Nota scribaeHe yawned three times before finishing the thought.
the eve of Palm Sunday, at Compline
It is too cold for April. A man's throat aches from the wind up here. Praise Saint Blaise, but I wish I had a thicker cloak. I hear the Hungarians are tearing up the roads south of here, but as long as they stay away from this gate, I do not care. I just want to finish my shift and sleep.
The Lord provides warmth for those who walk in His light, Tobias. Come to the chapel tomorrow.
Let the Cumans come! I'll show them how we fight in Troskowitz!
Ash Wednesday, at Sext
They say the priest has to write down everything we say now, by the Pope's order. Well, let it be written that the damp in this barracks is enough to rot a man's bones, and if Joan Cutler does not get over her sweating fever soon, there will be nobody to pour the ale right. Lord have mercy.
I am recovering, Tobias, thank you for asking so politely. You might try washing once a week yourself.
Nota scribaeDictated as he staggered back from his watch, eyes half shut.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I ate the same meat and I am right as rain, lad. You just have a weak stomach.
Come by the tavern when your shift is done, Tobias. A dark ale will wash the taste out, if you have a coin to spare.