Snippet #2534880

The team sauntered in, their morale sorely depleted after witnessing the death of a comrade in such a gruesome manner. They returned to base empty-handed and one man down; Isaac was not looking forward to filling out the report for this incident. In the barracks, the Slayers unloaded their gear, storing their heavy suits of armor beside their mattresses. Isaac hung around, standing there in case any of his team had concerns or comments about the night. However, the general mood was rather dampened, and no one seemed to want to talk. He knew he had failed them, had failed the Society. With heavy heart, he made himself scarce, retiring to his own dorm room.

Walking through the main hall, he witnessed Garreth Jorgon, leading a team of Slayers, heading for the main entrance. "Heard you botched your hunt tonight, Irons. Shame, that." Jorgan was an unforgiving bastard, smug when the timing was right. He could always be seen walking around with his chest protruding, always acting as if though he had something to prove. "Let's just hope that bad luck doesn't rub off on me, hm?" he concluded.

He and his team laughed, at Isaac's expense no doubt, as they walked off. Garreth was leading his men to a raid; they had been called out to dispatch some wights that had found their way to the surface from the catacombs, the work of some demented necromancer, apparently. Isaac said nothing in retort, but merely let Jorgan's words burn, almost as much as his own failure did.

Deciding it best to turn in for the night, Isaac found solace in the prospect of sleep. His report would have to wait until morning. He felt exhausted for now, and couldn't be bothered to indulge himself further in his own shame.