Greetings, all. Bjorn here. My quest for four simple pieces of wood has become a grand tragedy.
I have trekked to the North Forest. I have hunted in the East Forest. The trees, it seems, have declared a personal vendetta against me and my axe. Each return to my workshop, empty-handed, ended the same way: staring at the carpentry bench, willing a barrel stave into existence with the power of my mind. It did not work.
Even the provisioner had nothing for me. A dark day indeed when a man cannot even buy his way out of failure.
The splinters are many. The barrels are zero. I must go. I hear a tree in the East Forest laughing at me.
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