Gaming Gathering

You enter a low-ceilinged cavern lit by flickering lanterns made from stolen street lamps and beetle shells. The air smells faintly of mildew, burnt stew, and something suspiciously like wet socks. Around a rickety wooden table (which wobbles every time someone breathes wrong) sit half a dozen goblins—each with a permanent scowl and an assortment of snacks ranging from mystery jerky to spicy cave fungus.

One goblin—Grubnuk—slams down a handful of cards and snarls,

“If you play that on me, I’m flipping the table.”

Another—Krizbella—has been hoarding game pieces under her hat “for strategy,” which everyone knows just means cheating. Skorn, the tallest goblin, is hunched over the rulebook, muttering that “the humans wrote these rules to trick us.” No one really knows how far into the game they are—half the argument has been about whether they’re even playing it right.

Every few minutes, someone stands up to yell about a rule, throw a handful of pebbles, or make an accusation of “card tampering.” At least one goblin always insists the dice are cursed and tries to replace them with a shinier set they “found” in a nearby human tavern.

The only things louder than the arguments are the victory celebrations: if a goblin wins, they jump on the table, scream about their “tactical genius,” and immediately demand a rematch so they can “win properly this time.”

It’s chaotic, petty, and entirely unfair…
…and somehow, they meet every week without fail.