Whispers of the Upper Dark (and Shiny Things)

Gnikpaugh’s recovery was, to put it mildly, an ordeal. Mostly for me, as I was forced to be a silent, pointy witness to his various recuperative strategies. The glowing green fungus, thankfully, only resulted in a few days of spectacular digestive fireworks and a brief period where his skin took on an even more alarming lime hue. His actual wounds – the gashes and bruises from the Cave Troll encounter, exacerbated by the sheer bodily strain I’d unknowingly inflicted – healed with the stubborn, if aesthetically unpleasing, resilience of his kind. He moaned a lot, applied poultices made of things I tried very hard not to identify, and spent an inordinate amount of time poking at his scabs with a dirty fingernail.

This enforced downtime, however, gave me ample opportunity for… well, for whatever it is a sentient dagger does when its primary mode of transportation is indisposed. Mostly, I listened to the drip of water, the distant scrabbling of unseen things, and the truly remarkable range of Gnikpaugh’s recuperative groans. And I thought. Or, more accurately, I experienced.

The memory flashes were becoming more insistent, less like random sparks and more like insistent taps on a locked door. During one particularly long stretch, while Gnikpaugh was attempting to re-braid a matted section of his sparse hair with a fishbone, I felt it: not a vision of a forge this time, but a sensation. The distinct, perfectly balanced feel of a hand gripping my hilt – a hand that knew precisely how to hold a blade, how to angle it for a strike, how to make it an extension of a trained, disciplined will. It was a feeling of effortless partnership, of purpose, so profoundly different from Gnikpaugh’s clumsy, fumbling grip that it left an ache of… something. Longing, perhaps? Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the reality of Gnikpaugh yanking my hilt as he tried to get a better angle on his makeshift comb.

One day, I vowed internally, one day I will be wielded by someone who doesn’t also use me to detangle their greasy topknot.

It was during one of Gnikpaugh’s more lucid, less moany periods that we overheard it. Hushed, excited voices echoing from an adjacent tunnel. Snorg and Blort, by the sound of their distinctive sniffles and vacant grunts, apparently back from a scouting mission of their own.

“…saw it, I tells ya!” Snorg was saying, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Big tunnel, made of smoothy stones! Not like these crummy holes. And… and shinies!”

Blort made an interested gurgling sound.

“Yeah, shinies!” Snorg continued, warming to his tale. “Little bits o’ bright-metal, just lyin’ there! And pointy hats leave good bits behind sometimes. Food bits! Not just slimy stuff. Proper cooked bits!”

“Dwarfy-place?” Gnikpaugh croaked from our alcove, his good ear twitching despite his various aches. Even from my internal perspective, I could practically see his greed glands beginning to salivate.

“Yeah, dwarfy-place!” Snorg called back, a little louder now, clearly pleased to have an audience. “But… but not deep dwarfy. More… upper dwarfy. Lesser dark. Not so many big stompy boots. Easier pickin’s than tryin’ to bonk another Big Ugly like Gnikpaugh did!” There was a grudging respect in his tone now when he mentioned Gnikpaugh’s recent, near-fatal triumph.

Gnikpaugh was silent for a moment, a dangerous, thoughtful expression on his face. Well, as thoughtful as Gnikpaugh got, which mostly involved him wrinkling his nose and squinting. Despite his recent brush with becoming troll chow, and the subsequent agony of his recovery, the allure of "easy shinies" and "cooked bits" was clearly a potent siren song to his goblin soul. The idea of scavenging from the leavings of a superior culture, rather than wrestling another hulking monstrosity in the dark, held a certain undeniable appeal.

Oh, lovely, I thought, as Gnikpaugh began to struggle to his feet, a new, avaricious gleam in his eye that momentarily overshadowed his various aches and pains. Just what a recuperating goblin needs: tales of easy riches in the land of giant, axe-wielding beard-enthusiasts. I can see the flawless logic already unfolding.

Yet, as he grunted about "dwarfy-leavings," I felt that now-familiar, faint pull. The "Upper Dark," closer to their active domain… it sparked that strange resonance again. A flicker of curiosity, a sense of something almost… related.

At least if we go up there, I conceded internally, as Gnikpaugh began rummaging for his scruffiest looting sack, the decor might improve. Less slime, more… structurally sound impending doom. And perhaps, just perhaps, fewer attempts at goblin self-medication with glowing fungi. One could only hope.