Greetings, travelers. Bjorn here. Today, Britannia tested my patience. I must have approached the great doors of West Britain Bank a half-dozen times. Each time, the handle refused to turn, as if the very building was mocking me. My coin purse remains woefully light.
In frustration, I sought solace in the simple labor of the woods. Found a promising copse, but fate is a fickle sprite! Every single tree I strode toward seemed to retreat a step further into the ether, utterly unreachable. A strange magic is afoot, or perhaps I simply need new spectacles.
A day of locked doors and unreachable timber. The adventure continues, just... not in the direction I planned.
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