Heresy

In psychiatry, thought disorder or formal thought disorder is a term used to describe a pattern of disordered language use that is presumed to reflect disordered thinking.

It describes a persistent underlying disturbance to conscious thought and is classified largely by its effects on speech and writing. Affected persons may show pressure of speech (speaking incessantly and quickly), derailment or flight of ideas (switching topic mid-sentence or inappropriately), thought blocking, rhyming, punning, or 'word salad' when individual words may be intact but speech is incoherent.

– Wikipedia, on the definition of ‘formal thought disorder’, a symptom of psychosis


The road gets dimmer and dimmer;
Sometimes you can hardly see;
But it's fight, man to man,
And do all you can,
For they know they can never be free.

– Bonnie Parker, “The Story of Bonnie and Clyde”, 1934

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“Fire..honey….”, Cattwyn began, eyeing her carefully. What state was she in right now…after a few heated battles in Arathi? Her robe was torn in a few places; her hair singed from the nearby explosion of a mage’s fireball near the gold mine, and her face was still dirty.

Bedraggled and slightly haggard, it would be easy to assume Fireflower was weakened somehow; tired.

But as Elzebeth heard her name, and turned to face the succubus, Cattwyn noted that her eyes glowed from underneath her hood with a raw and piercing light, a certain sharp gaze borne out of the core of the warlock’s maddened soul; the sheer, focused desire to survive, honed while fighting into a blistering white point of clarity. It was here in the belly of self-preservation that something in Fireflower was truly sane; perhaps the only thing. It was suddenly clear to her that whatever this warlock was, or wasn’t, this creature - who even had some understanding of its own immortality - clung to its sense of ‘life’ with a vehemence that made the minion stop a moment and simply stare back at her.

Catt wondered if the warlock was even aware of it; probably, she reckoned, she wasn’t.

“Yeah, Catt? Whaddaya want?”

“Just want to have a look a ya, girlie, that’s all…you been gone a few days now, haven’t summoned me once.” The succubus chose her words carefully.

”Busy-bizzy.” The warlock nodded, shrugging. “Mister Xel and I fightin’ in the gladiator’s arena an’ won..OVER AND OVER AND AGAIN AND AGAIN! I was fond. Then..then…THEN! Then saw Misterzik in the BIG city an’ then we went fightin’ too, lots and lots, was good. I ate a mage…. See, someone said ‘Soupy’ but I don’t think he tasted like soup at all. Soopy….Mazzy says HUSH, SOOPY! Then I made Soopy droop…and then, I ATE HIM! Silly mages.”

The warlock nodded, quite sure of herself, giggling softly.

Cattwyn tried to make sense of her last sentences a moment, before finally shrugging it off.

“Zik? Ah..the General?” The succubus laughed and twirled her whip-like tail in one hand, idly. “Well that’s good, you’ve got your little pet back then, eh? My my he’s been gone some time now, we… I mean I… thought he was dead.”

Fireflower peered up at the sky a minute and took one deep breath before biting her lip as if she were thinking heavily.

“Nope.”

“Not dead?” Cattwyn laughed. “Well obviously, sugar, he’s not dead if..”

Fireflower suddenly looked back down and eyed Cattwyn with an even steady gaze.

“NO.”

“No what, girlie?”

”No, he is not my pet. He is Misterzik! MAZZY IS MY PET!” the warlock shrieked at her, stomping her foot. “MAZZY! I AM FOND!”

There was that look again. A white-hot coherent glare peeking out from darkness, like a crack in a volcano. A trembling violet lip. Emotional; but not consciously. It was below that, it was blind.

It dawned on Cattwyn now; that’s why the battle was doing this to her. The blind drive to win, to survive, to defeat the opponent somehow was linked to the most unconscious fledgling emotions the warlock posessed. It was only when that instinct faded, and Fireflower started ‘thinking’ again, that she lost control of herself.

Damned be all, but Cattwyn hated that felhunter. That was where it had all started, she was sure of it.

The subservient, obedient, smelly, oily mutt was the one creature that Fireflower had ever really responded to, during that brutal period of time that for some would have been a ‘childhood’. He obeyed her from the beginning, whereas Zigyal, whom Cattwyn had known for some length of time from a prior stint in Shadowmoon Valley ages ago, was lazy, talkative and voraciously hungry imp with all the charm of a dead buzzard.

Fire thought even less of her Voidwalker, Grak, who she’d summon only to sacrifice him when it suited her. Even then, she wouldn’t even speak to Grak, who had on more than one occasion done little more than rub himself against trees and block her view of the enemy. She considered herself better than he was at his job, and had barely summoned him back to this plane since her early days in Desolace.

No..it was Mazzy, who as minions went had an annoyingly ‘cute’ quality that would appeal to whatever fledgling splinter of humanity had existed in the girl. It was Mazzy that followed her everywhere, did what he was told, in a twisted demonic parody of a young girl and her favourite pet, this demon girl and her demon dog ran around together, like a children’s storybook gone very, very wrong.

She wanted, for a moment, to drive her heel through the dog’s skull then and there, but she was far too wise for that; instead, Cattwyn diplomatically nodded, and chose her next words carefully. It was time to put a few potholes in the pathways.

“Yes, of course. So…you are fighting with Misterzik even though you have to do the arena battles with Xelius?”

Fire blinked, as the subject change had the same effect as a sudden blast of wind.

“Battles, yes.” She nodded. “I ..am fond of battles.”

“Fond, eh? You use that word a lot, girlie.”

“Misterzik taught me it.”

“Oh? How clever of him.”

“Like is fond, fond is like.”

“I see.”

The warlock shrugged and began spinning around, looking at her robe’s hem. “My dress is dirty now, Catt.”

“Mm-hm, it is. So tell me what fond means, Elzebeth?” Cattwyn knew what it meant, of course, but to drive Fireflower’s mind back into some sort of chaotic state meant pushing her harder.

“Fond is…like! Like Mazzy.” Fireflower muttered, still spinning. “See, its so dirty, cause I was killin’ stuff, Catt! With Xelius an’ Misterzik! I like fighting..”

“Oh yes, so you like something! Tell me, girlie, are you fond of anything else?”

She stopped spinning.

“Dunno.”, she shrugged, as her attention focused on a small beetle crawling across the stone terrace. She raised a finger, and narrowing her eyes softly whispered a curse as the beetle’s body began to tremble, shivered a moment, then exploded in a tiny puddle of yellow goo.

Cattwyn watched her stare at it. The fire in her eyes had dimmed slightly. She supressed a small smile and continued.

“Is Mazzy fond of you?”

The warlock looked back up at Catt. “I DUNNO! I’m getting’ BORED with these stupid questions, CATT!!” She frowned and brought out her wand, batting it against her thigh.

“Oh maybe you’re too tired, must feel weak after being at battle for so long..”

“I AM NOT WEAK!” she screeched, balling her tiny white hands into fists and raising them into the air above her. “I can FIGHT all I want! Cause MISTERZIK says I GOT FREE WILL!”

Cattwyn’s mouth dropped open at the last two words. That was an unexpected development.

Somewhere inside her demonically wired mind the phrase ‘Oh, sh.it’ began to form for the first time. She had to think fast. If Lord Azrethoc got wind of how bad this really was…

Cattwyn shuddered. Since he’d been summoned back to the plane following his own daughter’s assassination attempt, he’d been meaner than ever. Hearing that she killed – however mindlessly – hundreds of Legion loyalists in the time to follow had whittled his normal demonic temper into something bordering on epic. She had visions of her own form being turned brutalised and turned into one of those vile and mindless sludges, condemed to slither around on the ground for eternity, recycled and re-used as he pleased. No…that would not do at all. She’d never particularly wanted to harm Fireflower; truth was, she’d served thousands of warlocks in her time, and this one was at the very least – entertaining. But Cattwyn had cultivated a certain will of her own in the aeons she’d existed in some form, or another, and she wasn’t about to lose it to a walking failed experiment.

She drummed her fingers lightly on the pillar nearby, narrowing her painted eyes a moment.

“You can, you can fight all you want….”

Fireflower nodded, her face tightening up in a mask, holding her staff out in front of her like a dancing partner, banging her head against it repeatedly.

“Its good to fight, isn’t it? You can fight with Xelius and Misterzik..I bet you’re even fond of them, aren’t you? Its nice to fight with them…”

Cattwyn let the last few words drip off her tounge like syrup, making sure they dripped slowly into the girl’s mind like honey, clogging and confusing her mind the moment they struck her feeble, struggling consciousness.

Choke the pathways. Knot them, stop them. And then.. make them explode.

Fireflower wobbled slightly. “Dunno…” she muttered softly. “Dunno, fond, fond is like…is fond. Mazzy, I am fond! Misterzik told me.”

“Yes, I’m sure, that was very helpful of him. Maybe Zik is fond of you.”

Fireflower snorted and glared at Cattwyn a moment before gazing down again, banging her staff against her head a bit more.

“Yup, he said…fond.” She began to wince, as if she couldn’t see clearly, before twisting up her mouth and sticking her lower lip out. “Stupid livin’ stuff..stupid..”

“Now….gosh, I wonder…Xelius is fond of you too! Oh..I wonder now….would you rather fight with Xelius or Misterzik? And if you could only choose one now, and the other one goes away forever and ever…”

Cattwyn’s tone, despite the malicious intent of her words, was as soft and soothing as the mother Fireflower had barely ever had.

“DUNNO DUNNO…hmmmagggh….” Fireflower stared at the sky, the little cry broke from her lips suddenly, before fading into a soft hum, as the light in her eyes faded back to normal.

“Catt?”

“Yes, girlie?”

“Sleepy now..”

“Ooh, don’t sleep, girlie…let’s go do somethin’!”

Fireflower bit her lip and nodded blankly. “Okay, Catt, Cattie…..” She started wandering slowly off before Cattwyn reached out and began dusting the girl off.

“Wait now, first, let’s fix this robe of yours.”

Cattwyn was all doting and attentive minion then, primping her, tidying her up, smoothing her wind-tangled hair, weaving her fingers delicately in the air around them as the gown began to clean itself, the tiny threads re-stitching as the girl yawned tiredly.

“There now…a warlock ready to fight again!”

Fireflower nodded back to her.

“Make them run from you….little Firegirl..make them run..” Cattwyn practically purred. “Fun when they run?”

“FUN when they run, Catt!” Despite the exhaustion that had lingered in shadows under her eyes, a wicked small smile beginning to crawl across Elzebeth’s features again, cold hard little eyes glittering madly.

“Ready girlie?” Cattwyn cracked the whip, a portrait of upbeat, playful insouciance.

“I’m ready.” Fireflower nodded and extending her arms, whatever ache she’d felt overcome by the blank determination of demon’s blood flowing through them, called her dreadsteed to her side once more, blinking her eyes slowly.

It was a risky little game, this balancing act. Bring her coherence, drive her mad, rinse..repeat. Wear her body down, wear her mind out, keep her stretched to her limits. She would not die, but if things went to plan, the sheer weight upon what little shred of humanity the warlock posessed would force it to crumble and eventually destruct beyond repair.

But Cattwyn was good at games after all; it was the nature of her being, the seducer – not just of hearts but of minds; of souls, the seller of twisted and profane promises, eternal and omnipresent. The seducer, the great manipulator that lies potentially resident within us all, that in its relentless service to our individual needs – be they carnal or otherwise - will do whatever necessary to accomplish its goal.

This was the art of the succubus; employed even, when necessary, against her own master.

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"I wrote the story myself. It's about a girl who lost her reputation and never missed it." - Mae West
Fireflower's Words of Wisdom: http://i200.photobucket.com/albums/a...ompilation.jpg