The Weight of a Worthy Blade

The world, when it solidified again, was different. Sharper. Steadier. And significantly higher off the ground. Gone was Gnikpaugh’s erratic, lurching gait, replaced by the solid, rhythmic tread of dwarven boots on stone. Gone too, thankfully, was the ever-present miasma of goblin. The air here, while still subterranean and tinged with the metallic scent of ore and the faint, earthy aroma of Grond Hammerfall’s well-oiled leather armor, was a veritable perfume by comparison.
Grond hadn’t spoken much since dispatching Gnikpaugh and tucking me, Stitch, into his belt. He was all business, his keen, grey eyes methodically scanning the tunnels as he resumed his patrol, his warhammer now back in its accustomed place, leaving me as his readily accessible sidearm. It was a strange sensation. With Gnikpaugh, I’d been the primary weapon, the focus of his clumsy efforts. With Grond, I was… an auxiliary. A tool of quality, certainly, as his earlier comments about my dwarven make had indicated, but a tool nonetheless, currently secondary to his massive, skull-crushing hammer.
Well, this is a shift in status, I mused, trying to adjust to the new viewing angles. From ‘Ol’ Rusty, Terror of Cave Beetles’ to ‘That Surprisingly Decent Dagger We Found on a Dead Goblin.’ At least the company has improved. Marginally less likely to try and eat me, I suppose.
After a while, Grond paused in a small, torch-lit guard alcove, clearly a regular checkpoint. He pulled me from his belt, his calloused, capable fingers turning me over, examining my lines, my edge, the almost invisible maker’s mark near my hilt that he’d somehow spotted. It was a professional assessment, his touch firm but respectful, entirely unlike Gnikpaugh’s haphazard mauling.
“Aye,” he rumbled, more to himself than to me, his voice a low baritone that vibrated pleasantly through my hilt. “Good steel. Proper balance. An Ironhand clan mark, or I’m a gnome’s uncle. Been a long time since I saw one of theirs this far down, especially in such… unkempt company.” He gave a short, humorless chuckle.
He then executed a few practice cuts and thrusts in the confined space. The movements were swift, precise, economical. There was no wasted effort, no flailing. Each motion spoke of years of training and hard-won experience. I tried, out of habit, to give a little ‘nudge’ as he lunged, but it was like trying to nudge a perfectly balanced avalanche. He didn’t need my input for basic swordplay; his form was already leagues beyond anything Gnikpaugh could have comprehended.
Right. So, my usual brand of aggressive backseat wielding is probably redundant here, I conceded. This one actually knows which end to stick into the other fellow. A novel concept.
A wave of something akin to loneliness, a hollow echo of Gnikpaugh’s abrupt absence, washed over me. It was absurd. I hadn't liked the goblin, not really. But he had been my first… everything. My first sight, my first fight, my first unwitting partner in this bizarre, disembodied existence. The bond, however crude and one-sided, had been there.
As Grond continued to inspect me, that pang of loss intensified. And with it, an idea. If I couldn’t nudge his arm, perhaps I could nudge… something else? I focused on that feeling of hollowness, that metallic ache of severance, and tried to push it outwards, towards the dwarf holding me. Not a command, not an instinct for battle, just… a feeling.
Grond’s brow furrowed slightly. He paused in his examination, his gaze sharpening on my blade as if he’d seen something new. He ran a thumb gently along my flat, then shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Strange,” he muttered, a flicker of confusion in his granite eyes. “For a moment there… felt a peculiar chill from this blade. More than just the cave air.” He gave me another look, then, with a grunt, slid me back into the loop on his belt. “Best get this logged with the armoury when I’m back topside. See if any of the old loremasters know its history.”
A peculiar chill? Is that what raw, existential angst translates to in dwarven? I wondered. Not exactly a nuanced emotional dialogue, but… it’s a start. He felt something. Progress! Perhaps I’m not just pointy after all. Perhaps I’m pointy and vaguely unsettling. The thought was, in its own odd way, rather comforting.