By Odin's bristling beard, the trees near Britain are in league against me. Spent half the day wandering in circles, couldn't even find the right stand of oaks! When I finally laid axe to wood, my swings were off. More failures than a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest.
But a Nord does not yield. Muscled through, turned logs into good, stout boards. Got a decent haul in the end, though my pride's a bit bruised. The forest won today, but tomorrow... tomorrow the trees will fear Bjorn's axe.
Skål!
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