marksman and trapper, of Zhelejov
“I am a master of the woods and a crack shot with a bow, kurva, not some tavern vagabond.”
Things Nicholas had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Monday before Ascension, at Vespers
Still sitting in this pigsty of a yard waiting on a master woodcutter or a merchant train. Not a single wagon needs a guard today. And there sits young Richard, clutching his tin badge like it makes him a man. Twelve groschen a month to play catchpole, bloody hell.
Nota scribaeDictated from the stable yard. He spat into the mud twice while speaking.
the second day of May, at Terce
Gilbert has lost his wits entirely. He sits in the corner drinking nothing but water since Lent, hoarding every copper to buy Bynyek's charcoal lease. Bynyek is in Prague, and his brother is going to cheat Gilbert out of every penny. A fool and his money, sakra.
I know what I am doing. When I have my own pitch, you can come beg me for warmth.
the Wednesday of Easter week, at Prime
I asked Bartholomew for my draw-knife again. He told me it is safer wrapped in his own pack for now, as if I am a child who cannot mind his own tools. That iron cost me a month freezing my arse off on the trapping run.
The iron is resting easy, lad. You have a quick temper and I wouldn't want you dulling the edge on a whim.
It is my edge to dull, kurva! Just bring it to the tavern tomorrow.
Nota scribaeHe spoke quietly, making sure the older man across the room could not hear.
the third Sunday of Lent, at Vespers
Drank the terrible ale here with Dicer Spots until my stomach turned sour. We heard soldiers are marching near Miskowitz again. Walter is drinking himself blind over his old mother up there, but there is nothing to be done for it. If God wants her, He will take her.
Have a heart, Nicholas. If the Hungarians find her village she has nowhere to run.
I told him we cannot march into a war zone just for one old woman. It is not our duty.
Nota scribaeThe dictation ended when the man went outside to vomit.
the day after Candlemas, at Sext
A proud day. Took the coin from my winter pelts and bought a beautiful draw-knife. To show good fellowship among masters of the woods, I lent it to Bartholomew so he can shape his yew staves. He knows the worth of a good blade.
You should have wagered that coin with me, Nicholas. A knife will not buy you ale.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I took a lawful oath last Saint Wenceslas's day, Nicholas. You are just angry because you have no coin.