Chapter 13: The Price of Being Pointy (and a Bit Too Pushy)

The silence that descended after the Cave Troll’s final, earth-shaking crash was profound. For a long moment, the only sound was Gnikpaugh’s ragged, shallow breathing and the faint, triumphant hum that vibrated through my own steel form. That hum – it was stronger than ever before, a resonant thrum that made my edges feel alive, almost thrumming with a cool, internal light. The victory over such a formidable foe had undoubtedly boosted my… whatever it was that made me, me. I felt sharper, more potent, as if another layer of some ancient tarnish had been scoured away.

Then, my wielder – or perhaps, more accurately, my recent meat-puppet – let out a particularly pitiful whimper, and my brief moment of self-congratulatory resonance fizzled.

We… we won? I thought, the "we" feeling a little more strained than usual. He actually didn't die! Astonishing. Truly, the resilience of this particular brand of green-skinned imbecile is something for the goblin history books. If they have history books. Or, indeed, books.

But Gnikpaugh was in a terrible state. He lay sprawled on the cavern floor, a crumpled heap of tattered hides and trembling limbs. The troll had landed a few glancing blows before my… our… final, desperate surge. Nasty gashes oozed sluggishly on his arm and leg, and a livid bruise was already blooming on his ribs where the troll’s club had likely connected despite our frenetic dodges. More worrying, though, was the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion radiating from him. His skin had a greyish, almost translucent quality, and his eyes, when they flickered open, were unfocused and dull. He looked like he’d wrestled a rockslide and the rockslide had not only cheated but also brought several of its larger, angrier friends.

And why did I suddenly feel like I’d just run a marathon I didn’t sign up for, despite not possessing legs? There was an echo of that immense strain within my own consciousness, a ghostly fatigue.

A strange, unwelcome sensation prickled at the edges of my awareness. Not sympathy, surely. I was a dagger. A superior, sentient weapon. Sympathy was for… for fluffy things. And Gnikpaugh was decidedly not fluffy. But there was an undeniable unease, a distinct sense of… concern? Perhaps even a dawning, microscopic fleck of unacknowledged guilt. The victory, as potent as the power surge it brought me, felt unusually hollow.

Note to self, I thought, as Gnikpaugh let out another weak groan. Maybe yelling ‘harder, faster, pointier!’ quite so forcefully in his tiny brain for an extended period has… certain physiological side effects. On him, mostly. Which, unfortunately, also impacts my mobility. And entertainment.

After what felt like an age, during which I mentally cataloged every drip from a nearby stalactite and tried very hard not to think about the truly alarming shade of green Gnikpaugh was turning, he stirred. With a monumental effort that involved a lot of groaning and trembling, he pushed himself into a sitting position. His eyes, still glazed, roved around until they landed on his various injuries.

Then, goblin first-aid commenced. And it was a horror show.

First, he scooped up a handful of mud from the cavern floor – mud that, judging by the smell, had likely been intimately acquainted with things best left unmentioned – and smeared it liberally into the deepest gash on his leg.

No! Bad goblin! That’s not sterile! That’s… that’s an infection speed-run! I shrieked internally.

Next, he licked his palm and rubbed the spit vigorously onto the bruise on his ribs, as if trying to buff out a stain on a particularly stubborn piece of furniture.

Oh, for the love of… is there anything you people don’t try to solve with bodily fluids?

Finally, his gaze fell upon a patch of luridly green, faintly glowing fungus clinging to a nearby rock. His eyes lit up with a spark of what he probably considered brilliant inspiration. “Healin’ moss!” he croaked, and began to gnaw on a piece of it, a look of intense concentration on his face.

That’s not healing moss, you fungal-fiend, that’s the stuff even the cave slugs avoid! You’re going to give yourself… well, something even worse than what you’ve already got! I despaired. He really shouldn't put that green slime on an open wound. Or in his mouth. Or, frankly, anywhere near a living organism he wished to keep living.

The "champion" of his damp corner, hero of the Cave Troll Takedown, was currently attempting to poison himself with questionable botany, all while looking immensely pleased with his own resourcefulness. It was a truly awe-inspiring display of goblin resilience and medical ineptitude. And I, his mighty weapon, could only watch, and internally update my list of "Reasons Gnikpaugh Will Be The Death Of Me (Figuratively Speaking, Of Course)."