C11 - The Misery of Victory
Back at the *Crimson Blades*' guild hall, the mood was…mixed. They'd won the battle, sure, but the aftermath was less triumphant than they'd anticipated.
The guild leader, Gerrik, stood in the middle of their battered guild members, arms crossed, frowning. Their victory celebration had been cut short by a harsh reality—supplies were missing, several key items had vanished, and worst of all, one of their most valuable treasures, a silver ring from their rare loot haul, was nowhere to be found.
"Alright," he began, trying to keep his voice steady. "Someone explain to me how we walked out of that fight as 'winners' yet somehow have less loot than we started with."
One of the younger members sheepishly raised a hand. "Uh, well, sir, we did win…technically. We beat the *Iron Serpents*."
"And yet we're *broke*, Kellen," Gerrik snapped, holding up an empty coin pouch with an accusatory glare.
Kellen shrugged, glancing around at his guildmates, who looked equally baffled. "I mean, we were in the heat of battle. We were focused on *winning*. Who cares about coin pouches and potions in a time like that?"
"Well, apparently someone did!" Gerrik roared, tossing the empty pouch aside in frustration. "Half our stuff is missing, our rare enchanted gloves are gone, and—" his voice dropped dramatically, "—my prized *Elder Ring* is gone. Do any of you understand the value of that item?"
There was an awkward silence before another member, Leah, piped up from the back. "Maybe…maybe the *Iron Serpents* took it when we weren't looking?"
Gerrik pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'd believe that if they hadn't been running with their tails between their legs. They were retreating! They didn't have time to steal anything!"
Silence descended on the room again, and Gerrik sighed deeply, feeling his patience wearing thin. "Alright, fine. Let's just call it a fluke and move on. A minor setback. We're still victorious, after all!"
The guild let out a half-hearted cheer, though it was clear that the sting of their losses hadn't quite healed.
Meanwhile, across town, the *Iron Serpents* were licking their wounds in their own cramped guild hall.
The *Iron Serpents* guild leader, Delvin, slumped in his chair, nursing a bruised shoulder and looking particularly sour. His members were scattered around, sulking over the humiliating loss. To make matters worse, they were also discovering the suspicious absence of valuable items.
"Do any of you have any idea how expensive those potions were?" Delvin muttered, gesturing to the empty shelves in their guild stash. "And why in the world are all our spell scrolls missing?"
A few members exchanged guilty glances, but no one spoke up. The truth was, they'd been in such a frenzy during the battle that most of them hadn't paid any attention to their belongings. But no one wanted to admit they might've just…dropped them.
"Well, at least we didn't lose anything *too* valuable," one member tried to reassure him.
Delvin's eyes flared. "What are you talking about? My favorite boots—the *Boots of Fleetfoot*! Gone!"
The room fell silent as everyone stared at Delvin, trying not to laugh at the image of him sprinting around in enchanted boots.
"Hey, don't laugh! Those were worth a fortune! And now, thanks to this 'battle'—" he practically spat the word, "we're down supplies, gear, and dignity!"
"Technically, we didn't lose that last part to the *Crimson Blades*," someone mumbled in the back.
Delvin shot a withering glare in their direction. "We were outplayed by a bunch of hacks! And now, to add salt to the wound, we've lost our gear!"
As he fumed, the members of both guilds were slowly beginning to realize the depth of their shared misfortune. Both had fought bitterly, with neither gaining anything significant from the clash—except, it seemed, for one silent observer who'd pocketed the true winnings.
Back in the main square, rumors were starting to spread about the "phantom thief" who'd supposedly swept up all the scattered loot. Members from both guilds were beginning to ask around, wondering if someone had seen anything, but the only answer they received was a shrug or a chuckle from passersby who seemed oddly amused.
The guild members could only grumble and vow revenge on this unknown thief. Yet no one could agree on who was to blame. The *Crimson Blades* blamed the *Iron Serpents* for supposedly sneaking back after their retreat. The *Iron Serpents* swore up and down that the *Blades* were playing some twisted trick.
By the end of the day, the "battle" had devolved into a series of bitter accusations and fruitless searches. While both guilds went home empty-handed, the guildmasters sat alone in their halls, each nursing their pride and wounded dignity.
And somewhere in the shadows, Auron grinned, counting his spoils. The chaos left in his wake? Purely incidental.