A day in the life of Ostiarium commoners

Ostiarium - any day

From here, it looked like hard work, all day long thought Wolf watching the common people work. Wake up, crawl out of their sleeping spot- usually nothing more than a pallet stuffed with grass or straw with a thin blanket to cover them selfs, no pillows- and, if they're wealthy enough, use the pot; if not, open the hut's door and pee to the side, or on a doorpost if they fear ghosts. Hopefully, the fire is still smoldering, so they don't have to try and light another one, but can just stir up the coals and warm up whatever was leftover from last night to eat this morning. Usually, it was some sort of stew, if they were lucky, it had actual meat in it; if not, add some more grains and call it hearty.

Now, get on about their work. If they have any animals, perhaps a pig or goat or a milch cow, any or all of them need to be fed and milked if they're that lucky. Find a bucket or a skin and go get some water, they will need that later in the day. Chop wood for the fire either tonight's or tomorrow's, maybe even next week's if they are thrifty.

They work the fields- hard, drudgery work, bent over, a rough-handled mattock to break the earth, ripping out weeds, hoping something grows if it rains just enough. Break when the sun is high, eat a piece of rough bread, maybe some cheese, perhaps the old woman had extra eggs and boiled them one, all wrapped in a cloth and carried to them like a peddler's pack.

Speaking of whom, the tinkers are in the village; time to get that metal pot fixed; the handle broke off, and it tends to dribble into the fire not only wasting precious food, but threatening to put the fire out, and fire is life. That'll cost them a few eggs, or a bunch of carrots, cool but starting to soften. Finish in the fields, observe their wood and kindling piled all around their huts with satisfaction, and grab your ax to strike off a few more shingles; the extra layer of wood around the whole of the hut will help keep the winter winds out and shed the interminable condensation and rain. Mend their shoes, make some wooden nails to do so, and go check the animals again.

Meanwhile, the women have been tending the children, baking that rough bread, carding and spinning wool from the sheep you slaughtered last winter and the fleeces have been piled in the corner for months waiting for her to have some time. Once she has enough spun, either of them might have an hour or two in the evening to knit themselves some socks. Warm feet are such a comfort. In the afternoon, she takes a few bundles of her worked wool to the waulking hut, and she and the other women walk the wool using all the urine she's saved from the pot, ammoniacal now, heated up and poured over the wool while they beat it with their feet, making felt. Much the better way to use wool when everything is always so damp and rainy.

She's left a pot on the fire filled with root vegetables and whatever was still left from the day before, and next week, the apples in the woods outside the village should ripen, so they can look forward to an apple tart in a few weeks if the mill's wheels keep turning and the miller doesn't mind payment as a half a flitch of bacon rather than coin. No one you know has a coin.
If they have time, they find a likely willow stand, and find some straight and slender young willows to cut for arrows; in the evenings, they can work them straight, soaking and pulling, then fletch them and barter for some steel points. Perhaps they can bring down a deer or two before fall sets in. Check their snare line for rabbits, bleed, clean, and skin the two they got, and take them back to hang for a day or two; meat for the week.

They'll need a line, though, for the bow, so they make a plan to use a piece of rawhide, cut into a very thin strip and well-worked, then wrapped in wool yarn, as long as their knife is sharp enough. Better keep an eye out for a good grinding stone while walking about. The goat, they see, has broken through the stick and twig fence they built yesterday and is in the small kitchen garden, happily munching on the pole beans; taking care of that sets them back a good hour and makes them wonder if goat meat might be better than milk and cheese. Probably not.

The light is fading, tired and hungry as they are, drag up to their hut. A bowl of vegetable broth flavored by smoke and the fact this particular pot is a few days on, now, fills their belly, and they set to work on the arrows, while they can still see. real winter is yet a month away; as soon as the light is gone, they go to their pallet; rest yourself for tomorrow.

Day after day after day. And this was a good day. on one didn't come 'round wanting rents, raiders didn't come through destroying the village, no one died.
Get some sleep- tomorrow is another hard day.
Excerpt from Scholar Boyce Blackwolf journal 'First Year in Arcadia'.