Greetings, friends. Bjorn here. Today, I sought to commune with the forests east of Britain, to harvest their bounty. The trees, it seems, had other plans. My axe sang a song of futility, striking true yet yielding nothing but splinters of my dignity. Even the path to the forest seemed to forget itself beneath my boots. I am convinced the very woods have grown stubborn. Tomorrow, I go again. The logs will be mine, or I will bore them into submission with tales of my repeated failures.
-Bjorn
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