The Deep Deeps' Denizens & Flickering Fragments

Gnikpaugh’s recovery from the Lurker skirmish was, like most things goblin, swift and unrefined. One moment he was a gasping, sweat-soaked wreck; the next, after consuming a truly alarming quantity of cave grubs and what appeared to be a handful of dried bat wings, he was back on his feet, "Ol’ Rusty" clutched in his fist, his chest puffed out with the memory of his "glorious victory."

The resilience of the truly oblivious is a marvel to behold, I mused, as he dragged me off towards a section of the caverns notorious for its swarms of giant cave bats – creatures with leathery wings, needle-sharp talons, and an unpleasant habit of dive-bombing anything that smelled remotely edible. Gnikpaugh, naturally, considered them prime hunting material.

“Big flutter-byes mean big eats, Ol’ Rusty!” he declared, brandishing me at the echoing darkness ahead.

The ensuing encounters were less about strategic finesse and more about frantic, wide-arcing swings as bats a-swooped and a-clawed. My "assistance" was crucial in deflecting talons that would have shredded Gnikpaugh’s already tattered hides and in guiding my point towards the surprisingly tough bodies of the bats. Each successful (if chaotic) hunt sent that familiar, satisfying thrum through me. I was definitely holding an edge better now; the tough wing bones and surprisingly dense carapaces of some of the larger armored cave beetles we also encountered didn’t seem to dull me as quickly as they might have before. I even fancied I might be a fraction of an inch longer, though it was hard to tell when your primary point of reference was a goblin who probably thought "measurement" was a type of particularly stubborn fungus.

It was during a lull, while Gnikpaugh snored with the gusty enthusiasm of a blocked drainpipe after consuming half a dozen charred bat legs, that it happened. I was, as usual, adrift in the darkness of Gnikpaugh’s inattention, a silent, pointy observer of his digestive symphonies. Suddenly, the darkness wasn't empty.

Clang!

The sound wasn't heard, but felt, resonating through my very essence. With it came a flash of intense, searing heat, the rhythmic roar of a massive bellows, and the overwhelming scent of hot metal and burning coal. I saw – or rather, experienced – a brief, blinding vision: a colossal hammer, dark against orange fire, descending with purpose. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone, leaving me in the familiar, goblin-scented darkness, confused and strangely… incomplete.

What in the blazes was that? I wondered, the echo of the hammer blow still vibrating within me. A dream? Can daggers dream? Or was that… something else? A memory? My memory? The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying. If I had memories, then I had a past. A before-being-Stitch.

The next "day" (as marked by Gnikpaugh waking up and immediately searching for something to gnaw on), I found myself trying to impart some of this newfound… something… to my wielder.

Alright, Gnikpaugh, listen up, I projected mentally with all the force I could muster, as he idly used my tip to scratch a particularly itchy spot behind his ear. We need to work on your form. That wild flailing might scare off a timid fungus, but against anything with half a brain cell, it’s an invitation to be disemboweled. Try a simple thrust. Pointy end forward. Controlled. Like… like the hammer falling!

Gnikpaugh paused his scratching, looked at me quizzically, then grunted and tried to spear a passing cave cricket by slamming me down flat like a club. The cricket, unimpressed, hopped away.

No, you pebble-brained buffoon! Not like that! I groaned internally. Thrust! En garde! Parry! Anything other than treating me like a glorified fly swatter!

He then attempted to "sharpen" me by rubbing my edge vigorously against a gritty piece of sandstone, a process that set my non-existent teeth on edge and probably did more harm than good.

Right, I sighed, as he gave up and went back to hunting grubs. Baby steps. Microscopic, often backward, baby steps. Still, that hammer… that fire… it felt important. For the first time since waking up in this metallic shell, I felt a flicker of something beyond immediate survival and goblin-induced exasperation: curiosity. A desire to know what, or who, Stitch truly was.