Deimos was in the middle of a particularly satisfying bit of bloodshed; a nice, young fellow on foot who had been trying to flee the aftermath of the burning Knossian palace. He was pretty, and young, and completely untrained, and though it wasn't exactly... honorable, it was definitely a good time.
There were no blades, yet. Right now it was just fists and feet, and he was definitely a leg up on the youth when his scalp began to prickle. That meant one, and only one, thing. That a certain head of the royal family was demanding an appearance, and right that instant.
He could've gone to clean up, taken five additional seconds to wipe himself clean in transit, but Deimos was wise enough to know that Grandmother Hera and Grandfather Zeus were two gods that you really didn't want to screw around with.
So appeared in front of Zeus before the tingling could get painful, covered in mud and blood, knuckles and knees encrusted with it as he coalesced on the white marble. "You called, Grandfather?" Yeah, okay, someone might call him cowardly--like his father, but Deimos preferred to think of it as prudence. If you didn't hand Zeus smart mouth, you didn't get your ass handed back to you on a thunderbolt.