Greetings, travelers. Bjorn here. Today, Britannia tested my will. I sought to gather lumber in the North Forest, but the very paths seemed to shift and deny me entry. When I finally found my way, my axe turned traitor, biting naught but air on every swing. The forest spirits must be laughing. To keep my sanity, I explored the clearings, finding a few quiet moments of peace between my bouts of failure. My arms ache, my pride is bruised, but the woodpile remains empty. Tomorrow, the axe and I will have words.
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