𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐒

ENTER  THE  HUNTING  HOUND.  watch  how  he  walks:  a  gait  made  confident  and  composed  in  the  evening  hours  by  bloodshed  some  time  before,  reddened  hands  in  the  pockets  of  well-fitted  sweatpants.  he  does  not  dress  in  a  fashion  that  indicates  his  position  today  -  a  change  from  his  typical  attire  when  it  comes  to  visiting  his  lord  -  though,  then  again,  his  position  rarely  needs  indication  at  all.  you  cannot  mistake  the  hunting  hound  for  anyone  else:  the  face  of  a  dead  man  assures  the  world  of  this,  i’m  exactly  the  monster  you  think  i  am.   it’s  the  subject  of  that  dead  man  that  sits  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  a  hunter’s  aid  long  dead  and  made  into  a  costume  for  the  demon  of  the  day.  not  one  he  literally  wears,  of  course;  he  admired  the  man  too  much  to  skin  him  in  such  a  fashion.  he’s  shapeshifted  himself  into  a  mirror  image  of  the  man,  taken  ink-stained  needles  to  his  neck  to  stain  skin  with  permanent  pitch  artwork  about  his  neck  and  shoulders,  all  in  a  labor  of  mixed  respect  and  cruelty. no  hunter  likes  seeing  the  face  of  the  fallen  reflected  back  at  them.  it’s  a  tactic  against  them.  this  is  what  arsenal  has  always  claimed,  at  least.   all  the  same,  he  walks  to  the  throne  with  misfortune  behind  him.  there  is  no  anxiety  swirling  ‘round  in  his  head,  nor  doubt  of  self.  this  is  the  fact  of  the  hunting  hound,  his  hair  down  and  his  gaze  sharp:  whatever  the  reason  is  for  his  summons,  he  won’t  shy  away  from  his  thoughts  on  the  matter.  one  does  not  serve  the  infernal  lord  for  as  long  as  he  has  -  since  seoul  was  a  shack,  since  the  days  of  changgeuks  finest  performances  -  without  gaining  some  level  of  favor  with  the  king  himself.   his  efficiency  must  not  be  understated:  the  heads  of  hunters  and  their  aids  have  been  his  to  collect  several  times  over;  the  souls  he’s  reaped,  though  far  from  what  the  idols  bring  in  now,  sustained  the  fire  with  -  in  equal  parts  -  devotion  and  damnation. he  is  not  some  child,  oblivious  to  the  grim  nature  of  their  work,  nor  is  he  a  raging  dog.  for  gwi-ma  alone,  the  mask  is  dropped:  vengeful  though  he  is,  brutal  though  he  is,  arsenal  is  not  stupid.   he  clears  his  throat  at  the  entryway,  folds  his  arms  behind  his  back,  and  peers  towards  his  lord.  when  he  speaks,  his  voice  carries  with  it  loyalty  hardened  by  ages  upon  ages. ❝  you  called  for  me  ??  ❞

Days passed when the lord grew easily bored; however, he found a sense of ease within his ranks, knowing that his own hunters were eager to gather souls and keep himself busy. Perched upon his throne, he sat, clawed fingers rhythmically tapping at the blackened stone as he waited patiently for his summons. Thoughts of conquest were interrupted by a ghostly maid once in a while, offering him tea to soothe his nerves. He brought the cup slowly to his mouth to taste the warm liquid on his tongue. It looks so delicate in his hands, giant claws gripping the glass like a cage. Comical in size to the lord's large proportions, but nevertheless handled with care as it is handed back. The sound of his visitor cutting theough the silence as the attendant backs away from Gwi-Ma to give the two space.

He turns his attention to the other, the minor demon standing within the grand hall, from feet away, as if he were scared to approach. After years of service, Gwi-Ma expected Arsenal to gain the confidence to sep forward. But regardless of the term, the other remained respectful and courteous, waiting for the beckoning of his claw to signal his welcome within the underworld palaces’ halls. “Approach,” came the command, the demon lord's voice booming and echoing through the empty halls. His flame's hue slowly casts itself further upon his hound's form as he closes the distance between them and steps closer to the lord.

Then there was silence. The footsteps came to a halt, only to be left with the flames crackling that caressed Gwi-Ma's hulking muscular form and the demon's shallow breathing as he awaited Gwi-Ma to speak.

“ The rift between us and the humans grows thinner each day. The honmoon is not strong enough to keep us back for long.” he stands from his throne, taking slow steps down from his perch to stand before his trusted hunting dog. Towering over the other as flames loom high from his form.

I like to think if Gwima himself went to hunt, it’d be serious shit, like maybe at a hunter that's causing issues. But imagine this large demon guy moving rubble out of the way like Mr. X and stomping after someone. Your weapons? Weak. Escape? Probably, he's a persistent mother fucker.