Ambition, Overreach, and a Whole Lotta Roar

The problem with a goblin achieving even a modicum of success is that their tiny, pea-sized brains have an equally tiny capacity for handling it. Gnikpaugh, now the undisputed "Best Hunter of Slimy Things and Occasional Edible Rocks" in his little alcove-based fiefdom, had developed an ego that was rapidly outstripping his actual abilities – even with my increasingly potent assistance. His newfound status, cemented by Grulok occasionally tossing him a slightly less-mangled cave rat limb, had gone straight to his head. Or, more accurately, to the bit of his head that processed ambition without any input from the bit that processed common sense.

“Gnikpaugh need… bigger challenge!” he declared one cycle, after effortlessly (thanks to my guiding his wild swings into something vaguely resembling a strategy) dispatching a trio of oversized, grumpy cave badgers. He puffed out his chest, striking a pose that probably looked heroic in his mind but mostly made him resemble a constipated frog. “Ol’ Rusty ready for… real fight!”

Oh, here we go, I thought with a familiar sense of impending doom. He’s got that glint in his eye. The one that usually precedes him trying to eat something poisonous or poke something that views him as a light snack.

His "bigger challenge" turned out to be a creature they’d all given a wide berth until now: a young Cave Troll. Not one of the truly colossal specimens rumored to inhabit the deepest, darkest regions, but a juvenile, perhaps only twice Gnikpaugh’s height. Still, it was a hulking brute of knotted muscle, warty green hide as thick as old leather, and a club made from what looked suspiciously like a petrified tree trunk. Its single, massive nostril flared as it sniffed the air, and its tiny, piggish eyes fixed on Gnikpaugh with a look of hungry stupidity. It dwelled in a larger cavern littered with bones – some disturbingly goblin-sized.

Snorg and Blort, who had tagged along hoping for scraps from Gnikpaugh’s badger hunt, took one look at the troll and promptly vanished back into the shadows with impressive speed. Gnikpaugh, however, was undeterred.

“Hah! Big ugly not scare Gnikpaugh!” he yelped, though his voice cracked a little. He hefted me. “We show him, Ol’ Rusty!”

We certainly will show him something, I muttered internally. Most likely, the intricate workings of a goblin digestive system, viewed from the inside.

The troll let out a deafening roar and charged, its club swinging in a ponderous but undeniably lethal arc. Gnikpaugh, to his credit, didn’t immediately wet himself, though it was a close-run thing. He yelped and tried to dodge.

This was it. This was beyond bats or beetles, beyond even the Lurkers. This was a genuine, life-or-death struggle against a significantly superior foe. And as that realization hit, something within me surged with an intensity I hadn't felt before. It wasn't just a nudge or a push; it was a torrent, a desperate, all-consuming will to survive.

The world through Gnikpaugh’s eyes sharpened, narrowed, focused with a preternatural clarity. As the troll’s club whistled down, Gnikpaugh’s body – our body – twisted with a speed and agility that should have been utterly impossible for his short, stumpy frame. The club smashed into the rock where he’d been a microsecond before. My tip, guided by a will that felt more mine than his, darted out, scoring a deep gash across the troll’s thick arm.

The troll roared in pain and fury, swinging again. Again, that incredible, unnatural celerity. Gnikpaugh’s arm, powered by something far beyond his usual goblin strength, brought me up in a desperate, ringing parry that somehow turned the massive blow aside. The impact shivered up my length, and I felt a corresponding jolt in Gnikpaugh’s straining muscles. He was grunting, his face contorted, but he was moving. He ducked under a clumsy swipe, his legs pumping, and drove me hard into the troll’s exposed thigh.

It was like being a master puppeteer, the strings pulled so tight they were almost one with the puppet itself. I could feel the burn in Gnikpaugh’s muscles as if they were my own, the ragged rasp of his breath, the frantic thumping of his heart. But overriding it all was the cold, clear imperative: strike, dodge, survive. I was so immersed in the fight, in directing our shared form, that I barely registered the inhuman strain I was putting on my wielder.

He lunged, he slashed, he ducked, he rolled – a whirlwind of desperate, goblin-sized fury. He was fighting better than he had any right to, better than he could. The troll, confused and bleeding from a dozen minor wounds, began to back away, its stupid eyes wide with something that might have been fear. Seizing the opening, we surged forward one last time, a final, desperate thrust aimed at its exposed throat.

My blade bit deep. The troll gurgled, stumbled, and crashed to the cavern floor with a sound like a falling mountain.

Silence. Then, Gnikpaugh crumpled beside it, not just tired, but utterly, terrifyingly spent. He lay gasping like a landed fish, his limbs trembling uncontrollably, his face a ghastly shade of green.

Alright, you oversized, slobbering sack of... whatever you were! You wanted a piece of Gnikpaugh? You got it! I thought, a strange mix of triumph and a dawning, disquieting awareness thrumming through me. Hngh... why does my non-existent arm feel tired after he swung me like a deranged windmill that whole time? And he looks… significantly worse for wear than usual. Really hope he doesn’t pop.