I see you, but you won't get out of my way; Ecco.

[Deimos]

 
A cold chill set up through the air, and the shadows that were cast across the meadow were not of natural making. The man in black that rolled his way down the sloped, grassy knoll. The smell of Ecco stinging his nostrils. That little tart of his had produced the most rancid of babies, and had left him to deal with the aftermath. Deathwish had been born as squalling black baby into this world, the scent of her enough to wake the dead—
 
Until he had seen that she could dead things alive again.
 
His eyes had widened, and his nostrils flared. Suddenly the wrinkled little one wasn’t quite so—untouchable after all.
 
Deimos has yet to raise a child. Not since Sin has he ever stayed to see the product of his making—and her corpse was long dead in the sands on the beach. That Ecco had such a hold over him, drawing him back to her side, forcing him to be near her—he hated it.
 
And yet he could not get enough of her.
 
She is obsessed with death, with a beautiful body and a penchant for chaos. He would gladly take her home and do all the dirty things with her that he knew made her weak at the knees. She had been so good. The only problem with her—
 
--was that she had a mother.
 
Potion—a beautiful carbon copy of his beloved Ecco (if one can use the word beloved)—was a royal pain in the ass. She sneered down her nose at him with all the disgust of trailer trash. The black magician smiled grimly behind her back. There had never before been a personality that Deimos had not been able to quash underneath his influence. That his seemingly greatest opponent was an errant mother in law made him seethed all the more.
 
Made him seem ordinary.
 
Deimos does not do well with ordinary.
 
The black fog that casts ribbons of shadow through the trees and into the open expanse like dry ice seems to follow him wherever he happens to be—and nearby the scent of his their daughter is about also. Just as well. But his presence here was for Ecco alone. That sickly sweet lavender body that made him tremble… and thirst for her blood.
 
And for death.
 
He can smell her. But he does not bother to call out. She will come if she is able.
 
Or else he’d hear nothing but flack from Potion for trying to summon her precious baby girl…
 
Deimos snarled.
 
Feminists.
 

DEIMOS

cry ‘havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war…

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@[Call]