A Goblin's Last, Vicious Stand

Grond Hammerfall advanced with the deliberate, unhurried confidence of a creature at the top of his particular food chain. He clearly expected Gnikpaugh to either collapse in a gibbering heap or make a futile, easily-swatted attempt at escape. He did not expect a fight.

Gnikpaugh, however, was a cornered goblin. And a cornered goblin, even one as generally inept as Gnikpaugh, possessed a certain low cunning and a surprising reservoir of desperate, vicious energy. With his escape route blocked by several tons of unamused dwarf and a very large hammer, he did the only thing he could: he shrieked a high-pitched, surprisingly defiant battle cry and charged.

Well, that’s… a choice, I thought, as Gnikpaugh’s world became a blur of motion. Not necessarily a good choice, but definitely a choice. Let’s try and make it a memorable one, shall we?

This was it. The culmination of every near-miss, every desperate scramble, every lesson learned (mostly by me, and then forcefully projected into Gnikpaugh’s less-than-receptive brain). As Gnikpaugh launched his suicidal assault, I felt that now-familiar surge of will, but this time it was different. It wasn’t just a nudge, not just a forceful suggestion. It was a torrent, a desperate, all-consuming fire that flooded Gnikpaugh’s senses, almost eclipsing his own fear-driven impulses.

I became the intent.

Grond, surprised by the goblin’s sheer audacity, brought his hammer up in a defensive posture. Gnikpaugh’s – no, our – first wild slash, which should have been easily batted aside, somehow found purchase, my keen edge skipping off Grond’s armored vambrace with a shriek of metal on metal, drawing a thin line of crimson.

The dwarf grunted, his eyes widening slightly. This wasn't the usual goblin flailing.

Yes! Again! Low, aim for the knee joint! I urged, and Gnikpaugh’s body, moving with a speed and precision that was utterly alien to him, ducked under a retaliatory swing of the hammer and lunged. I could feel the strain in his skinny legs, the burn in his underdeveloped shoulder muscles as he put his all into the thrust. My tip bit into the thick leather guarding Grond’s thigh, not deeply, but enough to make the dwarf hiss in pain and anger.

“Stubborn little rat!” Grond snarled, now taking the fight seriously. He moved with a speed that belied his bulk, his hammer a blur.

It was a desperate, chaotic dance. I was a whirlwind of deadly intent, channeled through a terrified, overmatched goblin. Gnikpaugh was grunting, yelping, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and sheer, adrenaline-fueled mania. I could feel his muscles screaming in protest, his lungs burning, his heart hammering like a trapped bird. I knew, on some level, that I was pushing him far beyond his natural limits, demanding feats of agility and strength his scrawny frame was never designed for. But the alternative was Grond’s hammer, and that was simply unacceptable.

A glancing blow from the hammer’s haft caught Gnikpaugh on the side of the head, sending stars exploding across our shared vision. He stumbled, and for a horrifying instant, I thought it was over. But I pushed, flooding him with a desperate surge of will, and he somehow stayed on his feet, shaking his head, and lunged again, my blade narrowly missing Grond’s throat as the dwarf leaned back.

Alright, beard-boy, you want a fight? You got one! My silent snarl was one of pure, focused aggression. Eat pointy doom, you… you well-maintained piece of mining equipment! Go on, Gnikpaugh, hit him with the… with the thing! Yes, that thing! Higher! Harder! Don’t you dare drop me NOW, you overstuffed mushroom sack! He’s tiring! I can feel it! One more good strike!

Grond was indeed breathing heavily now, a look of grudging respect mixed with قاتل (qatil - Arabic for killer/murderous) fury in his eyes. This goblin, this insignificant piece of Deep Deeps filth, was proving to be an astonishingly tenacious opponent. He’d landed more blows on Grond than any goblin had a right to.

But Gnikpaugh was fading. The unnatural strength and speed I was forcing upon him were taking their toll. His movements grew sloppier, his parries weaker. The fire I was fanning within him was consuming its fuel at an alarming rate. He was a candle burning at both ends, and the flame was about to gutter out.