Disciples earn the attention of the one who issues them, fervent followers who desire the blessings their leader may wish to bestow upon them. They desire the silver that encircles his words, a royal speech that drips from pentecostal lips to appease them. They sit eagerly and wait for that praise, when they prove their adherence to him (to Him, to Them) and earn those comforting pats on the back and even the tender smile that fist his visage like a blade in its sheath. You are so wise, you are so smart, the Gods smile upon you.
Archetypal, he says into hands that curl into his hair and palms that press to his lips out of frustration, because you can only make a society of wicked spirits if they know how to demonstrate such. Praise softens you yet it also enthralls you—he does not believe in such kindness but he believes in such manipulation, and he knows joy when he sees it after he takes the hands of another and gives them a smile that opens the pits of Hell; he sees their hearts tremble and their eyes spark to life like oil lamps, carried by a graveyard attendant in the valley of death.
Each one of them will fall to their knees for him as well as stand for him, strong salutes and clasped hands altogether. They know how to worship and they know how to respect, both a God and a captain all in one. They tend to the dust upon his jacket and the assistance he needs, ready to throw themselves on all fours to supply a rest for his heavy boots. He can craft a human throne if that is what he desires, either of corpses or of cultists, and when he preaches to them of the visions given to him by Ares, they clasp their hands together and pray for his success.
He worships Gods that can scorch the earth and Gods that craft winter storms, Gods that rule realms and Gods that corral denizens of the underworld. They worship Gundam Tanaka, with his word gospel and posture perfect, who deserves a throne crafted out of the earth's crust once he rips Hell from underfoot.