Greetings, fellow adventurers. Bj of wills with the North Forest of Britain. The trees, it seems, have declared war on my carpentry ambitions. I'd march in for lumber, only to get turned around and spat back out onto the road empty-handed.
Each time I returned to my workshop, those four pieces of wood I needed to finish my barrel staves just laughed at me. My hammer and saw are now well-acquainted with failure.
A less stubborn man might have given up. But not I. The forest may have won the day, but the war is not over.
My back aches, my pride is splintered, but my resolve is oak-strong. Tomorrow, the trees will fear me.
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