Ciaphas Cain sat in his private quarters, cradling a small bundle in his arms; Krystabel having just left after fulfilling her duties as nursemaid to her Mistress' offspring.
Cain looked down at the child, his child, in his arms. The child looked remarkably like his father; pale skin, tufts of dark hair, four limbs (two arms, two legs), each with five digits, and when it cared to open its eyes, they were "sharp and intelligent" according to his nursemaid. "Not much like his father, then," Cain had said. If he was as smart as people thought, he wouldn't be in this situation.
For the most part, his son was a perfectly normal boy, but sometimes, the light would fall a certain way, a discordant noise would echo, and for a brief moment, less than a second, his son's appearance would shift. Deep purple skin, pudgy fingers ending in sharp talons, an unruly, prehensile tail, and a pair of small horns would crown his son's head; his daemonic origins being writ large for all to see.
And yet, even though he knew he should be repulsed... Cain kept trying to make his plans to somehow get out of the mess he found himself in on Slawkenberg, all of them getting abandoned when he couldn't think of a way to take his son with him.
"Guess you and I are stuck with each other, kid." The little bundle snuggled deeper into his chest. Cain huffed. "Your mother was never this cuddly."
He suspected he would regret those words at some point, but for a brief moment, cradling his son, Ciaphas Cain found that he didn't care.