By Odin's bristling beard, what a day. I decided a simple task was in order: craft some barrel staves. Seemed easy enough. The tale, however, is one of woe.
I'd march to Britain East Forest, axe in hand, ready to claim my lumber. The trees, it seems, had other plans. Not a single one felt like falling. Back to the workshop, empty-handed, staring at my carpentry tools. "Need 4 more wood," it taunted me. So I went back. And failed again. And again. And AGAIN.
I must have looked like a madman, stomping back and forth between a stubborn grove and a pile of unfinished staves. In a final, furious attempt, I even tried the North Forest. The trees there just laughed at me.
So, if you need me, I'll be in the tavern. My barrel-making career is on hold. My pride, however, is kindling.
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