Paranoia Agent (short story)

This is a creative work set in the world of Elanthia, attributed to its original author(s). It does not necessarily represent the official lore of GemStone IV.

Title: Paranoia Agent

Author: Yardie

Sunlight broke through the windowpane, illuminating the decorative walls of the simple shack with specks of light that stabbed through the darkness of the cozy room. Its swelling glow crept on the wooden floor like lava, slithering across the ivory-edged black throw. The beam climbed the crimson red satin-draped blanket strewn over the hilly form of hugged knees enfolded underneath it. Ascending further, the shine unveiled the hammering heartbeat and shallow rise and fall of a person’s chest. Finally, it washed over the form of the moistened, twinkling violet eyes that belonged to Yardie, the Faendryl, despite its ghoulish form rogue.

Light defeated darkness. The rogue had watched the bout with nervous anticipation as the mental terrors had once again thwarted death’s gentler cousin, sleep. How long had he rested this time?

Hours?

Minutes?

To occupy his mind, Yardie had entered a staring contest with the door, wondering if this would be the day someone would kick it down, rob him of the haunted treasures of his tainted past, and then animate those dreadful nightmares into a hellish corpse set to consume him. Eyelids blinked away the dangling dew of tears.

His gaze settled upon the bed. Empty. In the early hours, it was most likely that his lady had gone to the Commons of the Rest or the Town Square of the Landing to tend the wounded like she often did. So, out of courtesy, he never occupied the bed without her permission, retreating to the cold hard floor as to not disturb her sleep with his nightmare-induced flails and kicks. Having been without home for so long, he often wished to not be a burden. Despite his lack of manners, he did have some awareness and respect. After all, he was Faendryl.

As his nerves settled to something akin to a semi-coherent state, Yardie brushed aside the thick covers, his lean and trim chest basking briefly in the morning sun. Aside from his missing shirt, he had collapsed in his same garb from the prior evening, yielding the luxury of comfort to the once immediate desire for rest. Of course, that turned out poorly, and with the failed attempt of sleep fresh in his mind, he rolled to his right to meet his quill and parchment resting beside him. He retrieved the items.

Suddenly, he heard a noise. Is someone there? Someone’s there.

“Love?” Yardie whispered, the corners of his lips sticky with a white film.

No response.

For minutes, he glared at the door, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.

Nothing.

Resignedly, Yardie took the quill in his left hand and palmed the journal with his right, opening the tome with a quick flick of the wrist. He scanned the contents of penned terrors from lucid dreams all revolving around discovery of the truth he hid, and the perceived consequences of his actions.

Imperatrix Lylia…Balefire...Drowned by the Magister...Skewered by Wrendriel...Her Poisonous Thorns…

The new dream shone in his mind like the morning sun, burned by the sheer atrocity of its gaunt, withered face. Despite the lack of skin and flesh, despite its ethereal form, the undead being was unmistakable.

I hope you’re wrong, Giliad. I hope you’re wrong.

In immaculate Dark Elven, Yardie began scribing his dreams, letting his thoughts bleed cathartically against the parchment. “In the darkness of the void, sheer terror flooded my brain, and compelled me to my knees. Madame Niadriel, now in the form of the ghastly Necleriine, floated closer and beckoned me with the crook of her taloned skeletal finger...”