The Chill of the True Dark

Our delves into the Deep Deeps grew bolder, driven by Gnikpaugh’s insatiable appetite for new things to poke (and subsequently, often to his regret, taste) and my own quiet, accumulating sense of… improvement. The rust was definitely receding. My edges held a gleam that wasn’t just slime-reflection. I felt more… potent.

One cycle – I was learning to mark time by Gnikpaugh’s sleep grunts and eating frenzies – he found a new passage, a narrow crack behind a curtain of pale, stringy fungus that even he seemed hesitant to consume. It smelled of ancient dust and something else, something cold and still.

“New place for Gnikpaugh!” he declared, puffing out his chest, Ol’ Rusty held ready. “Maybe find… shiny rocks! Or big sleepy grubs!”

Or unspeakable horrors that will wear your giblets as a hat, I offered silently, but the world through his eyes was already shifting as he squeezed through.

The cavern on the other side was vast, far larger than any we’d explored before. The usual cacophony of drips and skitters was absent here. An unnatural silence pressed in, broken only by the faint whisper of a draft that seemed to emanate from the deep, unseen heart of the chamber. The air was noticeably colder, the luminescent fungi casting longer, more distorted shadows.

Gnikpaugh shivered, pulling his ragged hide cloak tighter. “Cold,” he muttered, his bravado faltering. “Ol’ Rusty keep Gnikpaugh warm?”

I’m a piece of metal, you numbskull. The only warmth I offer is the rapidly cooling kind from recently deceased… oh, never mind.

He took a few tentative steps forward, and then it happened. The temperature didn’t just drop; it plummeted. One moment, it was chilly cave air; the next, it was as if winter had decided to pay a personal, unwelcome visit. Gnikpaugh’s breath plumed out in a thick white cloud. The faint luminescence of the fungi seemed to dim, cowering. The silence became absolute, a crushing weight.

Primal fear, raw and undiluted, flooded Gnikpaugh’s senses, and by extension, mine. He didn’t see anything. There was no sound, no visible threat. But every instinct in his small, goblin brain screamed DANGER. He whimpered, a high, thin sound, his eyes darting wildly around the oppressive gloom.

Then, he did the sensible thing. He dropped me.

One moment I was his valiant (if frequently exasperated) companion; the next, I was clattering onto the cold stone floor, his vision winking out into that familiar, total darkness. I heard his panicked scrabbling as he scrambled into a narrow crevice, his terrified whimpers fading slightly.

Plunged back into my own silent, sightless void, I was aware of only two things: the bone-deep chill of the stone beneath me, and a presence. It was immense. Ancient. Utterly, unthinkably malevolent. I couldn’t see it, couldn’t hear it, but I felt its passage through the vast cavern like the passing of a glacier, a wave of cold dread that seeped into my very metallic essence. It was a terror beyond spiders or slugs, beyond even the Leggy Nightmares. This was something Other.

Okay, that’s new, I thought, the usual sarcastic lilt entirely absent from my internal voice. And by 'new,' I mean 'pants-wettingly terrifying even for an amnesiac disembodied soul trapped in a dagger.' Good to know the little lummox has some survival instincts when faced with cosmic-level bad vibes. Pity he dropped me in what I sincerely hope isn't guano this time. It certainly feels cold enough to be something far worse. The silence stretched, heavy and waiting.