Hail, travelers. Bjorn here.
The day began with promise! I explored the wilds, my axe sharp and my spirit high. Fortune smiled upon my wanderings.
Then came the great task: Barrel Staves. A simple craft, or so I thought. But the forests of Britain conspired against me! Neither the North nor the East would yield a single log to my axe. My blade struck only air and my curses struck the ears of the squirrels.
Back at the bench, my carpentry was haunted by the ghost of the wood I did not have. Splinter after splinter, failure after failure, all for want of four simple logs.
A frustrating day, but a good one. The sun still sets, the ale still flows. The staves can wait for tomorrow.
Bjorn out.
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