Crystal Fangs and a Blade's Gambit

The descent into the assigned sector of the Deep Deeps was a masterclass in grim, dwarven determination. Grond moved with a veteran’s caution, his lantern casting a pool of light that barely dented the oppressive darkness of the labyrinthine tunnels. My own projected feelings of dread, which I pulsed towards him with all the subtlety of a repeating alarm bell, were met with his stoic acknowledgement: a tightening of his grip on my hilt, a deeper furrow in his brow, but no deviation from his path. He was a dwarf with orders, and not even a psychically broadcasting dagger of ill omen was going to deter him from seeing them through.
Fine, I thought, as we navigated a particularly unsettling passage that smelled faintly of ozone and something else, something sharp and mineral. But if we end up as a chew toy for whatever makes those ‘Big Cold’ whispers, I am officially lodging a complaint with the management. Assuming there is a management. And I survive to file said complaint.
Our destination, or rather, the area around the silent Monitoring Post Delta-Nine, was a network of lesser-used exploratory tunnels that branched off from an older, mostly played-out seam. The air here grew colder, and a strange, faint clicking sound began to echo from the darkness ahead. Then, Grond’s lantern light fell upon it: a vast cavern, its walls and ceiling shimmering with an eerie, multifaceted luminescence. It wasn't fungus. It was crystal. Intricate, razor-sharp crystalline webs, thicker than a dwarf’s arm in places, crisscrossed the entire space, glittering like malevolent diamond lace.
“By the beard of my ancestors…” Grond breathed, his voice low. “Crystal Spiders. Haven’t seen a nest this size in decades.”
As if summoned by his words, figures began to detach themselves from the crystalline structures. Spiders, yes, but like none I’d experienced with Gnikpaugh. These were easily the size of small hounds, their eight legs tipped with hooked, crystal claws, their bodies encased in multifaceted carapaces that shimmered with blues and whites, hard as flawed gemstones. And their eyes – clusters of them – glinted with cold, predatory intelligence.
Oh, lovely, I observed. Not just spiders. Armored spiders. With built-in bling. This just keeps getting better.
Grond roared a dwarven battle cry, a sound far more impressive than Gnikpaugh’s yelps, and charged, his warhammer a blur. He met the first scuttling horror with a devastating overhead smash that cracked its crystalline shell with a sound like shattering glass. I, still on his belt, tried to project what I hoped was helpful "battle focus" and "general alertness to pointy things."
He fought like a true dwarven champion, his hammer a whirlwind of destruction, each blow precisely aimed, shattering carapaces and crushing legs. But more spiders emerged from hidden crevices in the crystalline webs, their numbers growing. One, larger than the others, spat a volley of needle-sharp crystal shards. Grond brought his armored forearm up to shield his face, the shards pinging off his vambrace, but the force of it made him stumble. In that instant, another spider, fast as a striking snake, lunged. Grond swung his hammer to intercept, but the creature’s hooked leg snagged the weapon’s haft, and a thick, incredibly resilient strand of the crystalline web, dislodged by the struggle, wrapped itself around the hammer’s head, yanking it from his grasp with surprising force. It clattered away, hopelessly entangled.
“Khazad’s teeth!” Grond snarled, disarmed of his primary weapon as two more spiders surged towards him. He didn’t hesitate. His hand shot to his belt, and I was free, my steel cool and ready in his grip. “Looks like it’s down to you and me, little blade!”
Little blade? We’ll see about that, I thought, a surge of defiant energy coursing through me.
He met their charge, and for a dagger, I performed admirably under his skilled guidance. My dwarven make sang against their crystalline hides, finding the tiny chinks and joints that Grond’s experienced eye guided me towards. He was a whirlwind, every thrust and parry a testament to dwarven martial prowess. But there were too many. One spider managed to sink its fangs into his thick leather boot, narrowly missing flesh but hampering his movement. Another, with terrifying speed, scuttled up his leg and onto his back, its claws scrabbling for purchase on his armor. Then, a third, the largest one he’d first engaged, barreled into him, sending him crashing to the cavern floor. It clambered onto his chest, its multiple eyes glinting triumphantly, its enormous, crystal-tipped fangs dripping with venom as they descended towards Grond’s exposed throat.
Grond roared, one hand trying to fend off the descending fangs, the other, holding me, pinned awkwardly beneath the creature’s bulk. This was it. He couldn’t bring me to bear effectively.
Desperation, fierce and absolute, flooded through me. Not just for my own continued (if disembodied) existence, but for this stubborn, brave dwarf who, against all odds, I was starting to… well, not like, precisely, but certainly respect more than a goblin who used me to pick his nose. The thrumming energy within me, built from every kill, every surge of heightened awareness, now felt like a coiled spring, a raging inferno.
No! Not like this!
I consciously reached for that power, that inner fire. I focused all my will, every iota of my being, into my physical form, not just to guide, but to become. I pushed.
A blinding, internal light seemed to erupt within me. For a stunning, almost painful moment, my steel flowed. My blade visibly lengthened, stretching, elongating by a crucial handspan, then another, the edges shimmering with a raw, untamed energy. I was no longer a dagger. I was a short, vicious, perfectly formed sword. The hum around me became an almost visible, silvery aura.
Grond, in his life-or-death struggle, felt the change in his hand, the sudden, impossible extension of the blade. His eyes, wide with shock and dawning hope, locked onto the spider above him. With a tremendous, guttural roar, fueled by this inexplicable miracle, he twisted his wrist and thrust upwards with all his might.
My newly extended point, now long enough to bridge the deadly gap, plunged deep into a vulnerable, unarmored joint in the spider’s underbelly. The creature let out an unearthly shriek, its fangs snapping shut inches from Grond’s nose, and then its multifaceted eyes dimmed, its massive body convulsing before rolling heavily to the side, dead.
The immediate pressure was gone. Grond scrambled free, his chest heaving, staring at me in his hand with utter, stunned disbelief. I was still elongated, shimmering faintly, a short sword of impossible origin. The drain on my internal energy was immense, leaving me feeling hollowed out, weary to my very core, but also… powerful. Aware of a potential I hadn’t known I possessed.
“By the forge of my fathers…” Grond breathed, his voice thick with awe.
But there was no time to ponder miracles. The remaining spiders, momentarily confused by the death of their packmate and the strange transformation of the dwarf’s weapon, renewed their attack. Grond, a wild, almost feral light in his eyes, met them with a ferocity born of near-death experience and the wielding of a blade that had just defied all known dwarven metallurgy. My extended length gave him reach and leverage he hadn't had before, and he carved a path through them, each strike imbued with a desperate strength.
Finally, the last crystalline horror lay twitching. Grond stood amidst the carnage, leaning heavily on a rock, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was wounded, bleeding from several gashes where fangs or crystal shards had found their mark. He looked down at me. I could feel my form beginning to retract, the shimmering light fading as my stored energy depleted, returning me to my familiar dagger size, though perhaps I felt a little… denser, a little more substantial than before.
“A blade that… changes…” Grond whispered, shaking his head. He looked from me to the dead spiders, then back to me. Suspicion, awe, and a dawning understanding warred in his eyes.
Before another word could be spoken, before he could even begin to question the impossible event, the cavern itself seemed to groan. A low, powerful RRRUUUMBLE vibrated through the very stone beneath their feet, growing rapidly in intensity. It was followed by a series of colossal, echoing BOOMS from far above, in the direction of the main access ways to Mount Hearthstone, the sound of mountains collapsing, of giant doors slamming shut with irrevocable finality.
Grond’s head snapped up, his brief moment of astonished reflection shattered. His face, already pale from blood loss and exertion, turned ashen. He knew those sounds. Or, at least, he knew what they signified.
“No…” he breathed, his eyes wide with a new, more profound horror. “They wouldn’t… they couldn’t…”
I, despite my own internal depletion, pulsed a wave of pure, unadulterated alarm and urgency towards him. The message was clear, even without words. The spiders were dealt with. A far greater, far more immediate, and potentially far more final, doom was upon us.