Hail, friends. Bjorn here. The day began with promise, my boots finding forgotten trails and quiet glades not once, but thrice. The wilds whispered secrets to those who know how to listen.
Yet, Britannia's built places were less welcoming. The cemetery gates remained locked, as if the dead wished for no company. The stables? A comedy of errors. I swear the same stablehand mocked me twice, claiming I "lacked the stench of a true horseman."
A strange, shadowy path led only to a thicket that swallowed my dagger. But the wilds called me back, offering two more clearings to clear my head. A day of small victories and stubborn locks. The land gives, and the land tests. I live for both.
-Bjorn
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