Ignatius. Stone.

Familiarity drips poisonous within the demon's mind; memories of whispered past, names that dance just outside the realm of what he has met in life, in flesh, in blood. Blood - it exceeds flesh, scent, touch. Mother's voice, scintillating reminders of a legacy inherited; he knows who she is because of who they are, those titans who stood upon the ground before he was a soul. His angelic descent to the muddied earth is nothing against the imprints they have left in the depth of their wake, his mother says; he is nothing until he can match them. Kept in the dark the demonchild has waited, cast away from his mothers side until independence springs and worth is proven, until she sees him as a worthy spawn, a point of pride in her legendary life.

So how is it that he has come into their presence, found the spawn of his unholy sires, if not because he deserves it?

Deimos.

Dark titan on the rocky hill, the uncle he has never met watches through eyes of his mother's blue, and the demonchild quivers with what may be elation. Deimos, brother of Zuriel. He is the stuff of legend, the reaper of souls, the whispered pride of a family estranged and shattered in the fall of their empire, the demise of their home. Ghost, thinks the boy, Death returned to collect him on the glinting scythe he wields, long and dark as the bloodied sword of kings; he welcomes the experience, shivers, wonders at fate for bringing him to this door. "Uncle," is rasped, throaty response less contained than the older beast's, youthful wonder peering forth from beneath the illusion of muscle and disconnect. All makes sense in this shining moment, and he knows the world to be theirs, spread out and waiting for them to conquer it with the blades of the righteous and the screams of the wicked.

God and the Devil are one and the same, and these mortals are vessels waiting to be used.

"I sought my flesh, and I have found it." Four horns glint in the winter light, movement of light and movement of skull as he dips his crown slightly, marginally, enough. Heterochromatic gaze captures the stallion, and does not let go; now that the colt has found his kin he drinks the site in, insatiable and desirous as the lecher who has been locked away from women for a year, able only to satisfy himself- a satisfaction that is hollow when he knows what else can be. His tone shakes, his facade cracks. He smiles, a thin and sinister thing that floats upon the defined lines of a white-lipped maw, but he does not say anything. He knows not what to say. Let me stay with you, he thinks, he pleads, he asks- and he knows the answer, for this is the kin of his mother, and blood binds first.

Here in the dead and desolate waste of the north, the spawn of demons shall find his life.

[ ugh. ]