The Lucky Shiv & Growing Pains

Gnikpaugh, it turned out, had the memory of a goldfish and the self-preservation instincts of a lemming auditioning for a daredevil show. His spectacular, albeit accidental, victory over the dinner-plate spider had inflated his ego to roughly the size of a small goblin warren. He now considered himself a mighty hunter, a champion of the under-passages. And I, his trusty dagger – whom he’d affectionately nicknamed "Ol' Rusty" in a moment of what I assumed was peak goblin sentimentality – was his key to glory.

“Come, Ol’ Rusty!” he’d chirp, snatching me from his belt. “More pokin’ to do! More smashin’!”

It’s ‘stabbing,’ you undersized cretin, I’d think, as the world burst into vision through his eyes. And for the love of all that’s pointy, try to aim for the soft bits!

He started actively seeking out the local cave vermin. Giant, slimy centipedes that looked like ambulatory nightmares? Gnikpaugh charged, Ol’ Rusty held high (and usually wobbling). Aggressive cave crickets with mandibles like shears? He’d leap at them with a battle cry that sounded suspiciously like a stepped-on squeaky toy.

To my unending surprise, and his, he often won. I was getting better at the… assistance. It wasn’t direct control, not yet. More like a subtle intuitive nudge. When he’d swing wildly, I could sometimes, if I focused all my disembodied will, ever so slightly adjust the trajectory of his arm, guiding my tip towards a vulnerable spot. It was like trying to steer a runaway minecart by whispering polite suggestions from the sidelines, but occasionally, it worked.

And every time it did, every time Ol’ Rusty slid home and Gnikpaugh let out a triumphant (if slightly breathless) yelp, I felt that thrum. That faint, warm spark. It was becoming more noticeable now, a pleasant little buzz that left me feeling… more. More solid. More me. I even fancied that the patch of rust near my hilt was a shade lighter, though Gnikpaugh, bless his oblivious little heart, wouldn’t have noticed if I’d spontaneously sprouted a second pointy end and started singing dwarven opera.

He, of course, attributed all his newfound success to his own burgeoning martial prowess. “Gnikpaugh learnin’!” he’d declare proudly, wiping centipede ichor off my blade with a fistful of equally dubious moss. “Soon, Gnikpaugh be chief! All goblins bow to Gnikpaugh and his mighty… uh… pointy stick!”

It’s a dagger, you fungal-brained twit, I’d sigh internally. A dagger with a surprisingly patient, if increasingly sarcastic, soul trapped inside. And no, please, for all our sakes, don’t try for chief. The paperwork alone would kill you. Or more likely, another goblin with a slightly bigger pointy stick and marginally more brain cells.

But despite my internal monologue of despair and pointy-end-related advice, there was a grudging sort of… something. Not affection, heavens no. More like the exasperated fondness one might develop for a particularly inept but persistent pet. A pet that smelled bad and occasionally tried to eat things that were clearly not food.

Oh, hey, I noticed one afternoon, after Gnikpaugh had successfully (with considerable help) dispatched an unusually large cave cricket. Did I just get a tiny bit… shinier? Or is that just the cricket goo reflecting the luminous fungus? Hard to tell. Still, progress! Sort of.