The Absurdity of Sentience

Gloomweaver was an ancient blade of immense power. Forged in the heart of the realm of shadows, imbued with the magics of Shadow itself, and honed to the sharpest edge by the most famous of smiths, it had been wielded by some of the most famous heroes of the epics. But currently it was wielded by a moron.

Gloomweaver was unsure how it had happened. By some fluke of fate its latest resting place within the hoard of an ancient dragon, awaiting the arrival of a hero to take it up on a grand quest to save the world, had instead found it in the hands of a baker’s apprentice. Gloomweaver could hardly think of a more embarrassing circumstance. And yet here it was.

Apparently, the boy had fallen into a hole while out gathering herbs for his master. After stumbling about in the dark, he had been drawn to the glow of the dragon’s lair. As luck would have it, the dragon happened to be out devouring knights, or maidens, or whatever dragons devoured these days, and the boy had simply scooped up what he could carry, which included Gloomweaver, and waltzed right out. Ridiculous!

And now, with his newfound fortune, the boy fancied himself an adventurer. He had been swindled by the town’s armorer into paying far too much for a suit of armor that didn’t fit, paid double its worth for a nearly lame horse, and purchased the most outrageous scabbard for Gloomweaver. Really, the sword was embarrassed to be seen in it.

So instead of being on the most epic quest of the time, fighting powerful daemons, slaying dark lords, and rescuing…whoever gets rescued these days…Gloomweaver was bouncing around on an elderly horse in a ridiculous scabbard carried by a pimple faced boy. And did the boy appreciate the honor he had of wielding the great Gloomweaver? Did he recognize and respect the history of the blade? Was he awed by the sheer magnificence of its great magics? No, he mostly used it to cut firewood or pretend to fight tree stumbs. It was degrading.

It wouldn’t have been as bad if the boy could fight. Gloomweaver could accept being a part of a hero’s journey of self-discovery and growth. A zero to hero arc for a blade such as Gloomweaver wasn’t something to scoff at. Many a hero had found their stride training with a trusted blade, developing the skills and fortitude to overcome great obstacles and rise to the challenges necessary to face world ending threats. This buffoon couldn’t even put his armor on right.

The first threat they faced had been a disaster. Gloomweaver didn’t even want to acknowledge that it had happened. The boy had stumbled into a goblin camp. Not tracked goblins back to their camp. Not hunted a band of goblins to their layer. He was staggering in the dark to take a piss and walked right into their camp. Seriously, you can’t make this up.

Mind you, the goblins were genuinely shocked when a kid barely old enough to grow a beard stumbled out of the woods and began peeing into their fire. In his defense, he was half asleep and slightly inebriated after trying wine for the first time. But it was the most undignified way to start a fight Gloomweaver had ever had the misfortune of experiencing.

Gloomweaver should have just let the boy be gutted. Honestly, the kid had it coming. But what would the mighty Frostbreaker or nimble Emberthorn say if they heard the wielder of Gloomweaver had been bested by a band of goblins? Gloomweaver just wouldn’t hear of it.

The first goblin (Gloomweaver couldn’t tell if it was a he or a she. Goblins were difficult that way) drew its short sword and attacked. The weapon wasn’t even enchanted. Pititful. Not wishing such an inglorious end to its wielder, Gloomweaver nudged the boy forward into battle. Not expecting this, the idiot of course tripped over his own feet. The attacking goblin wound up stabbing one of its own companions. A hazard one faced when using a mundane blade.

Coaxing the boy around, Gloomweaver waited for the boy to draw it. But it seemed the boy had forgotten he had a sword and instead grabbed a pot. Gloomweaver was mortified. But unable to do much more, he gave the boy another nudge. Which merely resulted in the boy throwing the pot. It sailed over the first goblin, smashing the nose of a third as it exited its tent to investigate the ruckus.

At this point Gloomweaver had resigned itself to being a laughing stock among the great weapons of legend. It would never be able to look Flameborn in the hilt again after this debacle. But Gloomweaver was no quitter. There was still one goblin left, and somehow the boy remained standing. Small miracles.

At that point the boy finally remembered he had a sword. With an over-exagerated flourish he drew Gloomweaver. Then promptly dropped it into the campfire. Dolt. Seeing this, the goblin, who must have appreciated the value of such a fine sword as Gloomweaver, attempted to pick Gloomweaver up. And burnt its hand in the process, resulting in Gloomweaver being dropped. Again.

As the goblin tried to ease its burnt hand, the moronic boy grabbed the pot of stew that had been ober the campfire and splashed it at the goblin. At this point Gloomweaver wondered why it was even there. What had it done to deserve such irreverent treatment? Had it not served its previous wielders well enough? Had not enough scourges been slain? It also wondered if the stew now on its hilt would ever fully clean off.

With its hand burnt, and a face full of boiling stew, the last goblin ran off. The dimwit was at least smart enough NOT to grab Gloomweaver bare-handed. Unfortunately, he unknowingly grabbed a pair of undergarments that had been drying by the fire (unwashed) and used them to pull Gloomweaver from the flames. Once cooled enough, Gloomweaver found itself back in its less-than-glamorous home as its wielder finished the business that had sent them into this fray in the first place. And then didn’t even wash his hands. Disgusting.

Their next encounter was only slightly less embarrassing. While traveling along the road one night, a pair of highwaymen decided to attempt to rob the boy. Of what, Gloomweaver had never figured out. The dipstick didn’t look like he had enough coin to be worth the trouble, and Gloomweaver’s majesty was hidden by its revolting scabbard. And there was still stew in its hilt.

The pair of men stepped out in front of the boy’s horse, thinking to stop him on the road. Of course, they couldn’t have known the horse was nearly blind, resulting in one of them getting their foot trod on. Not off to a great start. Then came the pitiful dialogue. Your standard “give your gold or be gutted” from the highwaymen. The boy stumbled his way through some nonsense about the men being brigands who would pay for their trespassing. Gloomweaver imagined he’d meant to say transgressions. Not the brightest torch.

Fighting from horseback takes years of training. A bond must be forged between mount and rider. They must move as one unit, each complimentary of the other. These two were the opposite of that. And Gloomweaver realized that, once again, it would have to prevent itself from suffering irreparable harm to its reputation.

First the boy attempted to get the horse to charge. Instead, it reared, tossing the boy to the ground. And kicking one of the highwaymen in the head. Gloomweaver would have applauded the horse, if it could applaud. But then the horse bolted, leaving the boy on his arse with a partially concussed highwaymen and his now exceedingly enraged partner.

At least this time the boy remembered he had a sword. Drawing Gloomweaver, he held the blade up, the light glinting off its (less than polished now) steel. Then proceeded to stick it in the mud to help himself back up to his feet. Disrespectful twat.

But with Gloomweaver drawn, it had much more influence. As the highwayman brandished his sword, Gloomweaver tried to guide the boy into a guarded and readied stance. Gloomweaver imagined the fight, the boy parrying a clumsy swing, reposting with a deft thrust. It would be glorious. Gloomweaver should have known better.

Instead of guarding, the boy took a clumsy swing. Having not practiced with Gloomweaver, its weight overbalanced him, and his swing was easily parried. The highwaymen riposted with a deft thrust. The boy woulda been gutted if it hadn’t been for his armor. Gloomweaver supposed he hadn’t been COMPLETELY swindled by the armorer.

Gloomweaver figured at this point a bit of its magic would be necessary. Imparting a word into the mind of the boy, Gloomweaver waited expectantly for the boy to speak the word and level the blade at the highwaymen. Instead he looked at the sword, perplexed, and said the command word as a question. Nimrod.

Dark flames erupted from Gloomweaver’s blade, climbing up its length. The boy squealed and threw Gloomweaver in a panic. Right as the highwaymen charged. So Gloomweaver found itself impaled in the gut of a highwaymen, dark flames beginning to consume the man, as the boy whimpered from fright. Gloomweaver was glad the great bow Thunder Caller wasn’t around to witness its shame.

Eventually the boy calmed, pulling Gloomweaver from the scorched husk of his would-be robber. The dead highwayman’s companion had long since fled, not wanting anything to do with the boy after suffering a head injury, crushed foot, and watching his buddy get immolated. But the boy’s horse was gone, so he shoved Gloomweaver back into its disgrace of a scabbard (now with burnt on mud) and went in search of the horse. Gloomweaver cursed its present circumstances.

Gloomweaver began to realize it faced a serious dilemma. Did it keep the boy alive, suffering each indignity and mishap, until finally encountering an epic adversary worthy of a “hero’s fall” to preserve its dignity? Or did it cut short the injustice of its current situation and simply leave the boy to die in a ditch, accepting the inevitable damage to its reputation as a weapon of legend in the hopes of reclaiming some honor at a later date? No, Gloomweaver wouldn’t hear of it. This boy would die a glorious death if it was the last thing Gloomweaver did. And it hoped it wouldn’t be. Gloomweaver still hoped to be part of an epic team up with other weapons of legend someday.

The next few months were the worst of Gloomweaver’s long existence. Keeping the boy from dying in the most embarrassing of ways was a full-time gig. It required constant vigilance and subtle creativity on Gloomweaver’s part. And it was beginning to think it wasn’t worth the effort.

At one point the boy, after finding his horse sleeping a mile down the road, decided to charge after a monstrous bull that had been terrorizing a farm. The ding bat ran into a treebranch, knocking him clean off his horse. He almost impaled himself on Gloomweaver in the process. It would have never heard the end of it had that happened.

Another time they weren’t even in a fight. The boy had ridden all night and was exhausted. But instead of sleeping when they got to a tavern, he ordered soup. Then proceeded to fall asleep. IN the soup! The imbecile nearly drowned in chicken broth.

There had been one encounter where Gloomweaver had been hopeful they’d find a heroicly gruesome demise. A twisted behemoth had been rumored to be ravaging the surrounding lands. The boy had volunteered to slay the fiend. Based on the villagers’ descriptions, the creature was sounding more and more like the solution Gloomweaver had been hoping for. It was ready for the boy’s final showdown.

The boy stalked through the woods after the beast. Or so he believed. Even Gloomweaver could hear him stomping his way through the underbrush. The boy was not good at this, at all. A quick thought from Gloomweaver saved him from the gloryless death from a viper bite, the snake unhappy at nearly being trod upon.

Gloomweaver mentally winced when the boy tripped over an exposed root, nearly decapitating himself. It was absurd how often the boy nearly met his end via Gloomweaver’s own blade. Once was understandable. But this many times was becoming habit.

And then the final embarrassment. The boy stepped in a snare. Up he snapped, head slapping against the forest floor, Gloomweaver dropping from his hands. The cord holding him tightly about the ankle was fastened to a young tree. The fool just swung there, screaming for help and crying. Gloomweaver could just die of shame as he lay among the rotting leaves.

Then the behemoth arrived. It had to be eight, maybe ten feet tall. Gloomweaver never did put much stock in such measurements. Its skin was a mottled green, corded muscles rippling along its arms. Thick tusks protruded from its wide mouth as it watched the boy dangling there for a moment, a wet spot spreading through his britches. It was at that moment the boy decided to faint. The monster grabbed his feet, tearing him down from the branch and carrying him away. As an afterthought it grabbed Gloomweaver, dragging it through the forest floor. And yes, bears do do that in the woods.

The creature brought them both to a cave blocked by a boulder. Placing the hand holding Gloomweaver against the stone, it gave a mighty push, scraping Gloomweaver against the stone in the process, and moved the boulder aside. Inside the cave was surprisingly cozy. There seemed to be a thick rug at the entrance, and the beast wiped its feet. Peculiar.

Carrying the now unconscious boy deepe, Gloomweaver was sure the boy would be eaten. It was already trying to come up with some tale of an epic struggle, where the boy bravely fought against overwhelming odds only to succumb to the mighty beast. Gloomweaver just hoped nobody found the piss stained trousers. There was no spinning that particular tidbit.

Then the creature did something peculiar. It sat the boy down at an immense table. Shuffling about, it brought over large plates, cups, and utencils, setting them up on the table. It was at this point that the boy woke up. Man, could that boy scream. But to Gloomweaver’s mounting wonder, and slight dismay, the monster managed to calm the boy. It continued to set the table, before spooning what appeared to be a vegetable stew into bowls, to Gloomweaver’s displeasure. It was not a fan of stew.

The creature went so far as to pour the boy tea. It was the most absurd sight. This was supposed to be Gloomweaver’s out. The boy would be ripped asunder, and Gloomweaver would spread the tale among the legendary weapons of how he had fought valiantly, offering no quarter, but sadly had seen his young life snuffed out prematurely. Gloomweaver was already polishing up the prose of the boy’s epic. It would be glorious.

But instead the boy was being served tea. And chatting. Over stew. Inconceivable! They spent a few hours together, the creature apologizing to the boy for the snare. Apparently, he had been removing traps left by poachers. Some children had seen him but when he waved, he had frightened them. The poachers had used this to spread the tale of a ferocious beast snatching up villagers. You’d think villagers would be able to keep track of each other well enough to realize the lie. Simpletons.

And then they left. Gloomweaver couldn’t believe his foul luck. The boy just couldn’t die heroicly. He had to be the least qualified adventurer in the land. At this point Gloomweaver would have been happy in the hands of a squire with a limp who aspired to knighthood. Gloomweaver could work with that. Everyone loved a story about overcoming obstacles. Nobody would care for the tale of a stumbling baker’s apprentice who lucked his way out of death repeatedly. It was unheard of.

And so the years passed. From the blunders of a boy who nearly impaled himself on his sword regularly, to the missteps of a young man who tried to fight a warband of orcs only to discover they were a travelling troupe of circus actors. Regardless of Gloomweaver’s every effort, he could not orchestrate the proper demise of this blockhead.

Troll rampaging the countryside? The nitwit instead saves a dog from a trap and decides to bring it along. Great horrors of eldritch origin? Lost travelers who got stuck in the wrong plane. Even against legitimately dangerous foes, the man trips and skewers an undead warlord, putting an end to its designs of conquest. Gloomweaver just could not catch a break.

Gloomweaver was terrified of being scene publicly in the state it was in. Between the gaudy scabbard, the grease stained hilt, and the irregular and uneven polishings, Gloomweaver no longer felt it was a sight to inspire wonder. It was a sorry state it found itself in, and its dread at being recognized by one such as Mist Dancer or Death Sickle (horrendous name, really, but still a highly regarded weapon) was palpable.

It nearly happened once. Travelling through a city along the coast, stories were circulating about the revered pirate hunter Black Jacques and his legendary trident, Saltstinger. Gloomweaver was mortified when it realized its wielder was determined to meet this hero. But that just wouldn’t do. Gloomweaver couldn’t bear the idea of being seen in such a grotesque state, even if only by a pompous fork like Saltstinger.

Luckily, the man needed some liquid courage before embarking on such an endeavor. And so, with a little nudging from Gloomweaver, found himself completely sauced in a shady tavern. Of course, this nearly resulted in him losing Gloomweaver in a game of cards to a pig farmer. Which Gloomweaver briefly considered might be an improvement. But the lush managed a lucky draw, and so Gloomweaver remained in his incompetent possession. Silver lining, they never did manage to meet up with Black Jacques.

And on it went. Years turned into decades, and it was all Gloomweaver could do to keep this young man, now fully grown and getting on in years, from being a black mark on Gloomweaver’s record. And it wasn’t for lack of trying on the man’s part. Seriously, who would have guessed that a swamp witch would turn out to simply be a mushroom enthusiast with a skin condition? Did these peasants even research things before labelling them monsters and getting Gloomweaver’s hopes up? It was downright inconsiderate of them.

And eventually, decades later, that young, stupid, awkward boy was now an older, stupider, still somehow awkward man. And Gloomweaver had all but given up on finding that glorious death. So many close calls, so many near misses, and yet this walking disaster was going to die of old age. Gloomweaver was miserable at the thought.

But then one day it happened. A ferocious dragon was terrorizing the countryside. Heroes from all over the realm had been called to aid in its demise. Bruenheim, wielder of the great hammer Frostbreaker. Silla, the warrior priestess and her trusty Emberthorn. Blurk, the half-orc barbarian king who had taken up the venerable axe Skullsplitter (who really should be retired by now). The famed knight Sir Mod’Hamid, who carried the most famed sword of the land, the mythical Wyrmcleaver (Gloomweaver had always found it overrated, honestly). And the man who wielded Gloomweaver. Heroes to answer the call. An epic team up for the ages. Gloomweaver’s moment had come.

And so, strapping on his armor (he’d finally gotten it right), the man prepared to depart. He packed his travel pack. Checked his provisions. Strapped on his mighty blade Gloomweaver. And as they were leaving his modest home, he tripped over his dog.

As they tumbled, the man’s heavy armor dragged him down. Bouncing along each step, bones fragile with age snapped. And awaiting them at the bottom were the newly placed stones of the home’s walkway, recently put in to replace the soft soil. And as the man’s head met the stone, Gloomweaver lamented.

All those years of effort. Every nudge, every shift. Every prodding or revelation. Every attempt to keep this waste of breath alive so that he might finally face a threat worthy of Gloomweaver letting him die. And all of it ruined by a flea-bitten mutt and a man who couldn’t be bothered to simply look where he was going.

As Gloomweaver rested in the front yard of the man’s home among the freshly planted tulips, it cursed its fate once more. A weapon of legend. A powerful artifact forged by the greatest of smiths. Slayer of daemons, dark lords, and mighty undead. And it would forever be remembered as the sword found next to the dumbass who fell down his stairs. Pathetic.