I lose more runs to my own team’s greed than to any enemy blade.
I have seen Cryo and Outpost swept clean, lobbies laid quiet, Rooks broken and scattered like bones after war — and still my teammates wander, pawing through every crate and corpse like starving kings with no kingdom left to rule.
Your packs are full. The fight is won. The exit calls.
Yet still you linger for one more scrap, one more trinket, one more shiny little curse to drag us all into ruin.
And for what? To ignore eighty percent of the loot you find? To neglect it as though the chase itself was not already wasted breath and wasted blood?
I despise this greed, for it is the worst of us all. May Valhalla turn its golden doors from you. May you be stained scarlet for the little magpies you become, whoring yourselves out for shiny things, only for death to take it all from your hands.
Greed is not loot discipline. It is not game sense. It is the soft-handed villain that turns good runs into graves.
And that, dear fools, is why so many of you remain bad players.