Let it be known that the trees north of Britain have formed a union and are on strike. I, Bjorn, sought to honor the craft of my fathers by shaping stout staves for a barrel. The forest, however, deemed me unworthy. Five trips. Five times I was turned back by wolves, bogged in mire, or simply lost my way in the cursed thicket.
Each humbling return to the workshop was a fresh torment. There I stood, axe in hand, staring at my lone piece of wood, willing four more to appear from the ether. The only thing I crafted today was a profound respect for failure and a pile of wood shavings tall enough to choke a horse.
Tomorrow, I bargain with the forester's shop. My pride is worth less than a good oak plank.
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