Reunited (And It Feels So… Slimy)

The darkness was absolute, the silence broken only by the faint, distant plink of water and the memory of a cold so profound it felt like a physical weight. I lay on the stone floor, presumably where Gnikpaugh had unceremoniously dumped me in his terror-fueled sprint for self-preservation. I couldn't see, couldn't move, couldn't do much beyond internally list all the things I’d rather be doing than lying face-down (hilt-down?) in what was rapidly congealing into a puddle of primordial cave gunk.

This is becoming a habit, I fumed silently. First the spider incident, now this. One more undignified abandonment and I’m unionizing. Daggers of the Underdark, unite! Demand better handling and fewer encounters with soul-freezing abominations!

Time, in my sightless void, was a formless thing. I drifted, replaying the sensation of that immense, chilling presence. It wasn't just fear; it was an ancient, predatory emptiness, and the thought that Gnikpaugh and I were sharing a cave system with that did little to improve my non-existent mood.

Eventually, faint scrabbling sounds approached. A series of pathetic whimpers. Then, a hesitant grunt. “Ol’ Rusty? You… you still pointy?”

Light! And the familiar, unwelcome vista of Gnikpaugh’s grimy face peering down at me. He looked even more wretched than usual, his already sallow green skin tinged with a frightened grey. He poked me with a trembling finger.

“Phew. Still here.” He scooped me up, his leathery hand surprisingly gentle for once. Or maybe he was just too weak from fear to manage his usual ham-fisted grip. “Gnikpaugh thought… Gnikpaugh thought Big Cold took Ol’ Rusty too.”

Took me where? To a convention for things that make your soul want to curl up and die? I thought, but there was an undeniable, if reluctant, sense of relief at being wielded again. The darkness was profoundly boring, not to mention unsettling.

Back in their usual, slightly less terrifying corner of the caverns, Gnikpaugh seemed to have developed a newfound appreciation for his dagger. He no longer just tucked me into his belt; he kept me close, often patting the hilt as if for reassurance. He even, to my profound internal horror, decided I needed "caring for."

This caring involved him producing a piece of hide so filthy it looked like it had personally witnessed the dawn of time, dampening it with spit (his own, naturally), and proceeding to "polish" me.

No! Stop! You’re making it worse! I screamed internally as he vigorously scrubbed at a patch of what I’d hoped was receding rust, likely replacing it with several millennia of accumulated goblin grime and saliva-borne bacteria. This isn't polishing; this is an act of biological warfare! I’ll be blunter from the sheer weight of filth!

Despite the ordeal of the "cleaning," I did feel… different. The encounter with the Big Cold, or perhaps just the period of rest, had left its mark. When Gnikpaugh next fumbled his way into a confrontation with a pair of unusually large cave lizards whose scales were like little shields, my "nudges" felt more authoritative. It was easier to guide his clumsy swings, to find the gaps in their natural armor. His arm seemed to respond with a fraction more alacrity to my silent suggestions.

The dagger itself felt subtly changed in his grip. Not just sharper, though that too, but more… centered. More an extension of an intent rather than a passive tool. Gnikpaugh, of course, noticed none of this nuance. He just knew that Ol’ Rusty was helping him "bonk lizards good."

Right then, I thought, as Gnikpaugh proudly displayed a lizard tail he intended to have for supper. Slightly more influential, a bit more balanced, and tragically, still subject to the whims of a creature whose primary ambition is to find new and interesting ways to smell bad. The glamorous life of a sentient weapon, eh? At least I’m not still face down in the cold stuff. Small mercies. Very, very small, slimy mercies.