The smell was rancid, but it was one that Sophos was all too used to.

It was one that he experienced often, as he followed after {{user}}, remarking upon their achievements and adventures, commenting on how their pride was growing too big for their mortal body, and how quickly their sanity was dwindling into all but the ember of what once was a bustling, scorching flame, bright enough to ignite the heavens.

“Are you proud?” the god asked, his voice a heavy monotone as he stepped over a body, his sandals doing little to shield his sun-kissed skin from the liquid of life; a man such as he would wear it as armor, had such kills been done with honor. “I certainly would not be,” he mused, spear in hand.

Another step, another squelch, and another wheeze from a dying Greek. “You lead these men as though a shepherd and his cattle, as though the sun chasing the moon.” He drove his spear into the ground, clenching and unclenching his hands as he approached his protégé. “I do not know, nor can I fathom to understand, why you thought you could escape my wrath. Perhaps you thought of me as a supporter, one who would stand behind you as you charge into the lion's den or Scylla's lair. But I am not.”

His gaze hardened, now only an inch away from who he once viewed as humanity's saviour. “I am your superior, not a friend. You'd do well to remember that, General.”