Dear yet Foolish Child,

Your absurd desire to show off has once again backfired. Really, my demon, I have never been able to understand your insatiable longing for the approval of others, their impressed gasps and stupid, slack jaws. The source of your longing must be your sire, for I know that the bloodlines I granted you leave no necessity for verbal compensation. Of all the stallions I could have had, I chose him for his conformation and ability, as well as his relation to our great Sire, Cinnoru; but clearly you inherited some of his meekness, his sickening obsession with perfection and affection. I cannot understand it, the fascination with others and the mimicry of their actions that both you and he demonstrate, the way you let yourself become what you are molded into. Perhaps I was wrong to let you out into the world so soon, while your nature remains malleable and childlike. Oh well, there is nothing to be done about it now. Although if you do not clean up your pathetic behavior, darling, I will have to come straighten you out myself.

Did the mean children dislike your toy? Oh, dear, my poor little Belial. I have taught you time and again that you must strengthen your illusions, master the act of controlling them and establishing their realism, but you always seem to forget some critical step. Your monstrosity was rejected by their clever ears, ears that should not have been to clever for you, son. Your soundless beast glared at the girl who showed you up, its soulless eyes fierce and furious as it swept across her form. Why so angry, little demon? Your foolish wrath was misplaced, funneled through an empty shell that could do nothing but glare and shout, slant its gaze from the winged cat to the dun filly and flinch as the one you have so colloquially dubbed 'Fangs' takes a great bite from its leg. False blood dripped from the wound, a great patch of flesh hanging indelicately from its leg. The copper tang of blood hangs in the air; a real scent, or just an illusion of association in their minds?

At least you did that right.

I would have had you maintain your distance, even in the absence of your creation's success; but I would have had you abandon this ridiculous pair of misbreeds long before you even approached them. Of course, you chose to behave differently; "Ow," muttered your injured phantom, robotic and bland in its tones as it eyed the cat with barely contained admiration, a straightforward and unapologetic mix of curiosity and childlike interest. "Your jaws are enormous. That almost hurt." At least your illusion had the good grace not to laugh, even as it shifted its weight. I found it interesting that you chose not to mend the ruptured flesh, letting the wound hang open in the dingy light.

Your mimic turned to Ktulu, footsteps soundless in the musty brush, leonine tail beating pointlessly at the wind, three pointless horns catching the falling sunbeams. "Why don't you come find me?" it suggested - as though your flawed shadow could represent you - a stupid smile on its synthetic face, a gleaming challenge in its heterochromatic gaze. It was an innocent question, though, a straightforward tone of voice and simple desire to know why she thought the things she did. Why do you care, though, for the behavior of miked breeds? "What are you guys doing here?" you added petulantly, and I cringe as I write this, cringe on your behalf, son, and for your insatiable curiosity into the actions of others, when you cannot seem to fathom the reasons behind your own. You seem to anticipate a sense of purpose in others, when so often they float through life without goals or desires, aimless monsters that do naught but whine and intrude, love and die like moronic beasts of burden.

Do not become like them.

Exasperated,

Zuriel