About a week ago, a woodcrafting player came here looking for wood.

What a waste of wood… Enough for seven winters, there.

Some she-beast's taken to slaughterin' lumberjacks. That's why we got so little wood comin' from the sawmill.

Oh, he were a good dwarf, a craftsman like no other. But he were an incorrigible whoremonger as well. Whenever we'd put a bit o' coin aside, I'd say, "Let's buy some tools, quality timber." No. He'd grab the purse and head out whorin'.

Business is booming. There's profit to be made from war, provided you've the know-how. Before Nilfgaard had even crossed the Pontar, I'd contracted for insured deliveries of wood and iron from Kovir. Reaped a sevenfold return on my investment.

I'll provide you wood and timber to make whatever riggings you'll need.

I work at the mill. Chop trees, carry logs, saw lumber, you know.

This smell of dank earth and worm-eaten wood is going to make me lose my last meal.

Here for work? Get an axe and bring me all the wood you can chop.

Fresh food. No wood rot on the furniture. Someone's been here. Recently.