guard at the gates, of Troskowitz
“I stand at the gates when I must, friend, but a man's true worth is tested at the hazard table.”
Things Hynek had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Simon is weeping into his ale again about that bone die. I told you, friend, I rented it for the whole month. The groschen I win are from my own wits, not the bone. A man makes his own luck at the tables.
Nota scribaeDictated at the alehouse. He rolled a small bone across his knuckles the entire time he spoke.
the third day of Easter week, at Compline
Humphrey sits by the hearth looking like a man waiting for the hangman. Have a drink, friend! What is buried in the past is buried, and the mud took poor Tuma anyway. No sense freezing your blood over things that cannot be changed.
the feast of St Gregory, at Prime
Frost on the spear shaft this morning. Mikesh sits by his fire tallying boots and camp supplies while honest men freeze their arses off at the gates. If I catch a chill in my lungs, I will cough right on his ledger.
Aye, the tyrant docked me a penny yesterday for a rusted buckle.
Nota scribaeThe man smelled strongly of stale beer and leaned in entirely too close to speak.
the Monday after St Matthias, at None
A good night at the tables yesterday. I bought a round for the lads. A man must spend his coin slowly so as not to draw the wrong eyes, but a little generosity never hurt, eh friends?
Generosity with the coin my lucky die won for you, you mean.
Candlemas, at Terce
The wind cuts right through my cloak today. David and Havel are shouting again in the yard about whose fault it was Tuma died in the sleet last autumn. I say the Lord called him, so let him rest in the mud.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You said one game, you thief! Give me the die back and half the pot!
A deal is a deal, friend. Buy your own ale and leave me to my game.