A New Hand, A New Darkness

Grond Hammerfall, for all his initial surprise, was a veteran. He’d weathered Gnikpaugh’s (and my) initial, desperate flurry and now saw the openings, the faltering energy in the goblin’s wild attacks. He parried a particularly telegraphed slash with contemptuous ease, his hammer deflecting me wide, and then, with a grunt of exertion and finality, brought the flat of the weapon down in a swift, brutal arc.

It connected with Gnikpaugh’s side with a sickening thud.

I felt the goblin’s ribs crack, felt the air whoosh out of his lungs in a pained gasp. Our shared vision swam, tilted, and then plunged towards the stone floor. Gnikpaugh hit the ground hard, a broken, wheezing heap. He tried to push himself up, one hand still feebly gripping my hilt, but the strength had gone out of him. His eyes, wide and already glazing, found mine – or rather, found the polished steel where his reflection should be. There was a flicker of… something. Surprise? Fear? Or just the final, dimming spark of his crude, tenacious little life?

Then, the vision dissolved into a murky, fading grey, and finally, into utter blackness.

Silence. That familiar, empty void. But this time, it was different. It wasn't just the absence of Gnikpaugh’s smelly, chaotic presence. There was a pang, sharp and unexpected, like a snapped cord. My first wielder. My first window onto this strange, confusing world. Gone. For a long moment, I was just… adrift. A point of consciousness in an uncaring void.

Well. That happened, I thought, the usual sarcastic lilt in my internal voice strangely subdued. So long, Gnikpaugh, you magnificent, smelly disaster. You weren't much, but you were… mobile. And surprisingly resilient, right up until the point you weren't. Thanks for the… uh… memories? Mostly of bad smells and terror, but still.

The darkness didn't last. A new light bloomed, steadier, clearer than Gnikpaugh’s often panicked, unfocused gaze. I was being lifted. Strong, calloused fingers closed around my hilt. I saw the cavern floor rushing away, then the grim, bearded face of Grond Hammerfall looking down at me. He used a surprisingly clean piece of cloth from his belt pouch to wipe away Gnikpaugh’s blood and grime from my blade. He turned me over in his hands, his brow furrowed in concentration as he examined my length, my balance, the keenness of my edge.

“By my ancestors’ forge…” he rumbled, his voice a low baritone, much more pleasant than Gnikpaugh’s yelps. He held me up to the lantern light, his thumb testing my edge with professional caution. “This is no goblin trinket. Good steel. Clean lines. Dwarven make, or I’m a long-eared leaf-lover.” He squinted at some almost invisible maker’s mark near my hilt, a mark that even I hadn’t been consciously aware of. “Aye, the Ironhand clan, unless my eyes deceive me. What’s a blade like this doing with a scrawny tunnel-rat?”

He glanced at Gnikpaugh’s still form. “And another one of these green pests so far up into our workings. They’re getting bolder, or more desperate.” He shook his head. “Well, you fought well enough for a goblin, you little nuisance. More spirit than most.”

Grond Hammerfall gave me one last appraising look. “A good blade shouldn’t go to waste, especially one of our own make.” With a decisive nod, he tucked me securely into a spare loop on his thick leather belt. It was a snug, professional fit, entirely different from Gnikpaugh’s haphazard arrangement.

Then, he turned and continued his patrol, his heavy boots ringing on the stone, heading deeper into dwarven territory, towards the distant, unseen heart of Mount Hearthstone.

I was on a new journey. A captive, a spoil of war, perhaps. Wielded by a creature of skill and strength, a creature of the very race that my fleeting memories suggested had forged me. The questions about my origin, my purpose, loomed larger and more urgent than ever.

Dwarven made, am I? I mused, the world now viewed from a new, more stable, and significantly taller perspective. Interesting. Very interesting. Let's hope this one appreciates quality. And perhaps uses actual whetstones. And bathes. Please, for the love of all that is well-crafted, let him bathe occasionally. The Gnikpaugh olfactory experience is one I’d rather not repeat anytime soon. The darkness of my previous wielder’s demise was already tinged with the faintest glimmer of… curiosity.