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 ?? ❞