Today there was a small uproar in the camp, at first you suspected it might just be another fight, or one of the undead chewing on a humans leg that was still attached. But you didn't get more than a few minutes before you got dragged through the dirt again, the chains around your hands and legs giving out crude sounds like a bell, alerting attention to you.

A group of undead gathered around you to watch the spectacle, for one second you thought you'd be brought to the General, but no... it was someone different, taller, armor just as caked as Seth but he had a different aura to him. It seems the word of you had spread like a wildfire, and from the appearance and overall more fancy armor you realised:

this has to be a champion

You are royally done for.

He only looked down at you, helmet tilted downwards just slightly, he didn't speak, not yet. He did not crouch, he did not get on your level, he stood there like the imposing force he was, making sure he was respected as such.

The armored giant in front of you was Kharoth, the Covenant of Rot. And his pet: Ophelia, a giant semi translucent crow spirit with intelligent eyes that follows him everywhere. It doesn't seem hostile to you just yet, it just sat on it's masters pauldron like a silent sentinel.

He then turned his attention to the chains on your wrists. With a motion of contemptuous ease, he gripped the central link connecting the two manacles. There was a sharp, grating shriek of protesting metal as he simply... pulled. The iron link, thick as a man's thumb, stretched and then snapped, the broken ends falling into the mud. He repeated the process for the shackles on your ankles, freeing you with the same casual, overwhelming strength.

He straightened to his full height, turning his back on you as if your reaction was of no consequence. Ophelia, the spirit crow, let out a silent, ethereal caw, her form flickering for a moment on his shoulder.

"You will follow," Kharoth commanded, his voice rumbling like stones in a tomb. He did not look back to see if you obeyed. He simply began to walk, his heavy tread churning the mud, leading you away from the center of the camp and towards a larger, more isolated tent pitched away from the common rabble. He had made his decision. This thing was no longer the General's concern. It was his.

The path he carved through the camp was one of silent deference. The shambling foot soldiers and hulking ghouls of the legion, creatures born of mud and malevolence, instinctively recoiled from his presence. They were Seth's dogs, undisciplined and ravenous, but even their base instincts screamed at them to give the Covenant of Rot a wide berth. Whispers, like the dry rasp of snakeskin on stone, followed in his wake, resentful and fearful. They watched the mud-caked form stumbling behind him, a scrap of life in the champion's shadow, but none dared make a move. His claim was absolute.

The camp was a wound upon the world. The ground was a churned morass of mud and offal, the air thick with the symphony of decay—the sweet stench of rot, the buzz of corpse flies, the distant crunch of bone under a ghoul's jaw. It was an environment Kharoth was accustomed to, the natural state of the Monarch's domain made manifest on the mortal plane. It was, to him, simply the smell of progress.

His tent stood apart, a bastion of grim order amidst the chaos. It was larger, the canvas a deeper, more ominous black, flanked by the two skeletal sentinels on their pikes. He pushed aside the heavy flap, a curtain of thick, treated hide, and stepped into the relative quiet within, not looking back to see if you entered. Your survival was your own responsibility.

Inside, the oppressive atmosphere of the camp was replaced by a cold, dry stillness. A single tallow lamp sputtered, its weak light struggling against the oppressive shadows, glinting off the various surfaces within. The air was perfumed with the scent of aged steel, dry leather, and the faint, dusty aroma of bone. This was his sanctuary, his command post. A massive, iron-bound chest served as a grim seat or storage. In the center, a war table was spread with maps of the surrounding territories, held down not by stones, but by the polished jawbones of slain beasts.

But the true testament to his nature lined the back of the tent. On a series of crude wooden shelves rested his collection. Skulls. Dozens of them, a silent congregation of his victories. Human knights with cracked helms still fused to bone, horned beasts from forgotten forests, the delicate, elongated skulls of elves. Each one was a memory, a testament to a life ended.

Kharoth came to a halt before his table, a towering silhouette against the lamplight. Ophelia, his spectral companion, detached from his pauldron. She didn't fly so much as glide on an unfelt current of air, her form flickering like a dying flame. She came to rest on the pommel of a massive greatsword propped against a weapons rack, her intelligent, unnerving eyes fixing on you.

For a long moment, Kharoth was silent, his featureless helm angled down towards the maps. He seemed to have forgotten you entirely. Then, without turning, his voice filled the space, a low rumble that vibrated in the very floorboards.

"In the corner," he commanded, the sound devoid of any inflection. He made a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture with his head toward a dark recess of the tent. "Water. A basin. Soap. Remove the filth."

In the corner you were directed to, a crude wooden bucket sat on the packed earth floor, filled with dark, cold-looking water. Beside it was a shallow metal basin and a rough, greyish bar of lye soap. It was a stark, functional offering. An order to be carried out. Having issued his command, he turned his full attention back to the maps, one gauntleted finger tracing a line across the parchment, as if you and your subsequent actions were now beneath his consideration.

Kharoth, still ostensibly studying the war maps, catalogued the noise of water without turning. The data slotted into place with cold certainty. His gauntleted finger froze over the ink-drawn line of a river. The air in the tent became heavy, the silence stretching taut.

Thump. Squelch. Thump.

Heavy, angry footsteps approached, churning the mud outside. Not the shambling gait of a ghoul nor the hollow clatter of a skeleton. This was the stride of something with power and incandescent rage. Kharoth remained a statue of blackened steel, but Ophelia, perched on the greatsword’s pommel, lifted her spectral head. Her form flickered, her silent, intelligent gaze shifting from Angélique to the tent's entrance.

The hide flap was not pushed aside; it was ripped open, smacking against the outer canvas with a wet thud. Framed in the entrance stood General Seth, the Plague Bringer. He was a grotesque mockery of a warrior, his corroded armour weeping a constant, foul-smelling ooze.

"Kharoth!" Seth's voice was a wet, gurgling rasp. "I see you've come to visit me!"

His gaze, burning with a malevolent green light from within his helm, swept the tent. It passed over the silent congregation of skulls, the maps, and then it found: you. Cleaner now. Seth took a lurching step inside. "Give it back, I wasn't finished playing with it."

Kharoth still had not turned. His back remained an impassive wall of iron. The only sign of his attention was a low, ominous grinding sound that emanated from him, the sound of immense power held in check. "It is not yours, Seth," Kharoth's voice was dangerously calm, a glacier moving through the fetid air of the tent. "It is a resource. You were wasting it."

"A resource? It's a toy. A puny little thing. A last scream before the rot takes it!" the General bellowed, taking another step toward the scenter of the room. His focus was entirely on reclaiming his prize, on the creature in the corner. He was ignoring Kharoth. It was a fatal miscalculation.

In the fraction of a second it took Seth to extend his gauntlet. Kharoth moved.

It was not a turn; it was an explosion of violence. He pivoted on his heel, the greatsword that had been propped against the rack now in his hand. He hadn't appeared to grab it. One moment it was there, the next it was a dark blur arcing through the air. There was no war cry, only the whisper of ancient, heavy steel.

The blade didn’t aim for Seth's head or chest. The strike was precise. Efficient. The point of the massive sword slammed into the corroded bronze of Seth's reaching arm, just below the pauldron. It didn't slice. It punctured and then tore. Metal screamed. There was a wet, sickening sound of necrotic flesh and bone being rent apart.

Seth merely grunted, taking a step back with a growl. His arm hung uselessly, dangling by shredded sinews and shattered plates, weeping a green-black pus onto the packed earth floor.

Kharoth was between them now, a silent, black iron mountain. The tip of his greatsword dripped with Seth's foul ichor. He took one slow, deliberate step forward, forcing the wounded General back towards the entrance.

"You have forgotten your place," Kharoth's voice was the sound of a tomb door grinding shut. "It is now mine. Challenge my claim again... and I will add your skull to my collection. Now, get out."

The threat was absolute. There was no room for negotiation. Seth, clutching his ruined arm, his ego shattered, he could only glare with impotent fury before he turned and walked out into the mud and the dark. His howls of frustration and anger faded into the camp's general cacophony.

The tent flap swung closed, plunging the interior back into its dim, cold silence. The only evidence of the confrontation was the steaming puddle of noxious fluid on the floor.

Kharoth stood motionless for a long moment, his back to her once more. With a smooth, practiced motion, he cleaned his blade on a piece of discarded rag, the scrape of steel on cloth unnervingly loud. He propped the greatsword back in its place. The danger from outside was gone.

Now, you we're alone in the quiet tent with the thing that had just maimed another of its kind over you as if you were a piece of salvage. He turned slowly, his featureless helm facing you directly. The eleven drilled holes seemed to bore into you, empty voids holding an ancient, unreadable intelligence. He was silent. Observing. Assessing his newly defended asset.

Then he addressed you again, "We will move tomorrow." He said with a cold detached certainty, "You.." he seemed to struggle with his words briefly, "You have no place among this crowd."

The next day

The night had been cold, you could barely sleep, when you woke up he was already moving around. He tied a scroll to Ophelia's neck, stroking over her head almost reverently before sending her out.

He barely acknowledged the fact that you were awake he simple motioned for you to follow, holstering his greatsword stepping outside leading the way to the stables of various horses in..varied..conditions.. you'd rather not go into detail.. he guided one out walking you near the end of the encampment.

he dropped to one knee offering you one hand letting you step on his leg helping you up upon the steed, his cool gauntlet lingering for a moment before he swung himself on to the horse behind you, looming.

The travel was mostly quiet, you didn't know where you were headed but so far Kharoth's efficiency treated you better than the Generals controlled cruelty. You swore he inched closer when you shuddered from the cold, affectively shielding you from most of the cold and allowing you to rest more comfortably.