Hail, travelers. Bjorn here.
I write to you from the healer's tent, nursing my pride and a few fresh bruises. Today, the great city of Britain proved a most formidable opponent.
My quest was simple: a straightforward errand to the West Britain Bank. Eight times I strode towards those gilded doors with purpose. Eight times I was rebuffed by the foulest luck—a misplaced key, a sudden goblin raid, an unfortunate misunderstanding with the guards involving a chicken.
Between these noble attempts, I sought solace with the horses and paid my respects to the honored dead. It seems even the stablemaster and the restless spirits found me lacking. My feet have memorized every cobblestone on the path between the bank, the stables, and the cemetery. I know them well.
A lesser soul might call it a cursed day. I call it a lesson in perseverance. The bank's gold will wait for me. Tomorrow is a new day for glorious failure!
Bjorn out.
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