Demonchild walks onto the battlefield, and he is the first, the greatest, the lord of all he commands and all he sees. The heavens are merely a mirror into his soul, a reflection in his eyes, a tumultuous painting depicting the strains of his heart. He stands alone, and the wind tries to be his friend; it breaks across his face and clings to his hair, painful in its needy grasp and passionate embrace. Soon, though, it falls away and carries its whispers with it. The demon does not give it a second glance. He does not have the attention to spend on such trivial things as a mere zephyr, when around him there rages a storm. As though in retaliation for his insolence, thistles slap him across the shoulder, wet splatters that leave more mark than their raindrop compatriots. Ripped from their stalks by a breeze like an angry child who, growing tired with his toys, casts them aside - but the mahogany youth pays them no mind. Like the wind, they can leave no lasting impression. They are dust motes in a tornado, infantile minds clashing against the great collective of the universe. They mean nothing to him! He is their lord, their master, their god.

Vibrant streaks of lightning paint the sky, casting high contrast shadows instead of illumination. It breaks upon him in sudden bursts, electric slashes in murky clouds that hurt his eyes; but he refuses to squint. His challenger approaches, the dark angel sent to end his demonic rein, the cruel black form a murky haze in the horizon of his mind. Above her, a streak of fire, a golden companion that speaks of ancient legends and heartless beasts. He feels an intense loathing for the pair, an emotion deeper than he usually achieves. To him, she is not just an equine, not just a foe; she is the devil overthrown, a vengeful seraph come to wrest control of all he commands. She is tall, she is experienced, she is old. She knows the ways of a world that has barely welcomed him into its arms, and she knows that he is but a babe, a newly christened yearling sent far from his mother's embrace. "Should I be afraid?" he wonders, and it is the voice of his mother that answers, soft and serpentine in his mind.

Against her height you pitch your weight; against her experience, your fervor. Against her knowledge you thrust your horns; let her underestimate you, and strike her back while she enjoys her confidence. Deception is your tool, my son.

Deception. Lies. He is a king of demons, a prince of deceit. Ice freezes in his eyes, rain stings at his face, and he relishes the pain, laughing in the face of his usurper. The sound is hollow and mirthless, an expression of some emotion that he does not know, a rising result of a need to react. Poor fallen angel, you have come to the end of your road. The demonchild will not relinquish his crown.

He closes his body, but he does not close his eyes. They remain two-toned beacons on a map of snow, blue and silver and cold as the thunderous sky, broken and staring with neither purpose nor focus. Pale mane whips about his neck, and he does not react. He has retreated away from her, away from this scene. In his mind, he builds a maze, a labyrinthine world of hedges and stone, of cruel thorns that tangle among themselves and threaten to tear against the delicate flesh of equine, yearn to taste blood. In his mind, it grows detailed; he is careful to taste each leaf, to examine the strength of each stalk. Aromas kiss his nostrils, and foliage cries under the assault of the furious storm. The stench of rotting undergrowth makes him pinch his nostrils in disgust.

He blinks, and the labyrinth is there, and she is caught. It springs around her, springs around them; it is realistic and deep. It twists with corridors that mimic his convoluted mind, winding trails and twisted missteps; but it is wide, each aisle the breadth of an equine from side to side, large enough that she might avoid the 'thorns'. It only takes a minute for him to draw the plans out in his mind, a second to cast them upon the ground, but he fears it is too late, an ugly scowl of concern stretching across his face. Still, it is done; he can do no more. He stands within the cage of his own making, and he dares her to try and escape. Far above, lightning streaks and casts foreign shadows across the meadow.

His labyrinth casts no shadows, for it is only a shade of his mind.

[ ooc || 798 words. Belial created an illusion labyrinth around Mirage and himself, roughly 60 by 60 feet, which looks, smells, and sounds like real leaves, but casts no shadow. It is full of large thorns to discourage touching the walls ]