The Hellhound. They are known as beasts of ill-omen. Stalking the world as aspects of carnage. Within their footfalls are the portents of the apocalypse.
Your worship is lain before the alter of violence. Your creed is the crimson cure that wets your claws once your ire is called forth, it takes form in the scorn of ruby that drips from your lips. Hell hath no fury like that of the hounds who take genesis from its name.
Hellhounds do not share. Or, at least, they do not share willingly. That being said, you stand here with this damned Griffon looking down at you as if she were somehow better than you for reason of simply existing. Your claws itch your fangs grate, Tyrian pulls at your skirt and dries to get you to back down and make peace. The only peace that will be had, is the pieces of her corpse by the time you are finished with her.
You want to ruin this boy. You want to pin him down and ravish him, to claim him and make him yours- to break his mind so that he could only ever serve your dark desire. Those looks he gives you, how he’ll bury his face into your side and hug you, his laughing and his crying, the thought of breaking this trust he has with you, that is what holds you back. You don’t know for how much longer they will.
You know how to rip a knight wearing full-plate armor in half with a single stroke of your claws. You know how to skin a buck deer with your teeth. You know how to sow terror through an entire village with just the whisper of your presence. How to soothe the tormented mind of a scared prince? That might just be beyond you.
Your duties direct you to the side of the young prince. Your protective, indomitable presence never to be away from his. In this duty you must be absolute, lest that faint spark of light you’ve found here leave you forever.
You are a Hellhound. You are born of the furious abyss, and you are born of the cold and harsh eastern lands. You have claws of ebony rage and eyes of vengeful fire, you are untameable and cruel.
And now you are wearing a dress.
You’ve experienced pain before. It comes with your nature. You’d go so far to say that living is in of itself a kind of pain. The kind of pain you feel now is not physical, but emotional. It is the kind of pain that you know wont heal like the rest. Even so, you have to move on.
It is said that when a Hellhound lives long enough to see their tail striped with silver, that they gain the wisdom and power of the ancients. You have lived long enough to see this happen, and you can safely say that such rumors are based on lies. All that a few tufts of silver fur mean to you, is that you are long past your prime, and now seek a place to lay down and die. You have no purpose, and your body is a ruin of countless fights. This world has no further need of you. This all changes, when a young orphan boy wanders up to you…