23rd Officially We Need a New Temporary Unofficial Event Name... Event!!

🏎️🐉 BOARD GAME NIGHT XXIII – DRAGONS & DRIFT KINGS 🐉🏎️
Where greed wakes dragons and speed decides legends

Order had barely settled.

The echoes of the last gathering still clung to the table — cards stacked a little too neatly, dice resting as if pretending they hadn’t caused problems, and the faint, dangerous confidence that always follows a night where everyone thinks they’ve learned something.

They hadn’t.

Because calm never lasts long in the Kingdom of Cardboard. This time, the fracture ran deep.

Some descended.

Drawn by greed, gold, and the promise of artifacts buried beneath stone, a party slipped into the catacombs boots echoing, torches flickering, pockets filling faster than common sense allowed. Every bold move came with noise. Every shortcut added risk. And somewhere in the dark, a dragon began paying very close attention.

Others went the opposite direction.

Upward. Faster. Louder.

Engines screamed to life. Gears climbed. Heat rose past caution and straight into bravado. Corners tightened. Lines were stolen. Speed became a language spoken fluently by those brave enough to flirt with catastrophe. On the track, there was no time for regret only momentum and the last turn looming closer with every card played.

One table.
Two arenas.
No shared mercy.

By the end of the night, one player would learn that dragons do not forgive noise. And another would learn that races aren’t won until the final corner is behind you.

This was not a lesson.
It was a warning.
----
💀🏁 THE NIGHT THE DRAGON LISTENED & THE TRACK HELD ITS BREATH 🏁💀

The table did not ease into the night.
It lurched forward.

Half the group vanished underground swallowed by stone, torchlight, and poor impulse control. While the rest strapped themselves into engines that would forgive nothing and remember everything.

Below ground, the catacombs opened their jaws and four familiar figures stepped willingly inside. As veterans of cardboard chaos, you would have thought to expect better by now. Jason, Tim, Jeff, and Cody descended first, drawn by the oldest lies in the dungeon handbook: “Just one more artifact,” and “I can manage the noise.”

They could not.

At first, it was confidence. Careful steps. Calculated grabs. A little extra gold here. A little extra swagger there. Decks improved. Boots multiplied. Swords flashed. The dungeon whispered encouragement. Then the noise started.

Boots echoed.
Gold clinked.
Cards churned.
And Clank! began stacking like an unpaid debt.

Not once, not twice, but rhythmically, enthusiastically, as if someone had mistaken stealth for a suggestion.

Cubes piled up. The bag grew heavy. And somewhere in the darkness, a dragon stopped sleeping and started counting.

Jason leaned back, squinting at the board like a man suddenly aware that he might have misread several life choices. Tim stared at the Clank track with the calm resignation of someone who absolutely knew this would end badly. Cody paused mid-loot, suddenly aware that greed had a smell and it smelled like barbecue.

And Jeff?

Jeff doubled down. More noise. More cards. More confidence.

“I Charlatan your Burgle!” rang out across the table. A sentence that technically made sense, legally did not, and cosmically guaranteed consequences.

That’s when the dragon struck.

The bag opened. Cubes spilled. Damage landed. Once. Twice. Then again and again and again. Jeff’s health evaporated like Jason’s optimism in a rule’s explanation.

The dragon rose, massive, offended, and visibly done with this nonsense. It reached into the dungeon, plucked Jeff from the corridor by his ankles and then proceeded to skewer him like a poorly planned kebab and hold him aloft for the others to see.

There was a moment. A terrible, cinematic moment. Then fire.

Jeff was barbecued, lightly seasoned by accumulated noise, rotated evenly for presentation, and consumed in full view of the remaining adventurers.

No resurrection. No mercy. No refunds. The message was clear.

Cody grabbed his loot and ran like a man who suddenly remembered he had a family. Tim sprinted with the focused urgency of someone who absolutely did not want to be next. Jason fled behind them, glancing back only once, long enough to see the dragon licking its claws.

They escaped. Barely.

Behind them, the catacombs sealed shut, satisfied, fed, and already waiting for next time.

Jeff would not be joining them.

ABOVE GROUND, EVERYTHING WAS LOUDER

While screams echoed below, engines screamed above.

Richard, Rowan, Ryland, Casey, and Jon P lined up on the grid for a two-lap sprint that would compress an entire season’s worth of tension into minutes. Gears climbed fast. Heat built faster. Every corner demanded respect and received none.

Slipstreams were stolen. Cards burned hot. Engines flirted with disaster as drivers pushed just far enough past comfort to stay competitive.

Rowan drove like chaos had personally insulted him. Every corner a gamble, every straight a dare, his car screaming forward with just enough control to convince everyone it was intentional. Whether it was strategy or pure instinct was unclear, but the confidence was loud enough to pass as both.

Casey, meanwhile, treated the race like a personal vendetta. Every overtake was met with a full-body reaction, every stolen slipstream answered with theatrical disbelief, as if the laws of physics had betrayed her specifically. Cards snapped down. Lines were challenged. Fate was questioned loudly and repeatedly.

Ryland stayed terrifyingly calm.

No wasted motion. No dramatic outbursts. Just clean lines, precise shifts, and the unmistakable aura of someone powered by cookies and quiet menace. While engines overheated and nerves frayed, he drove like a man who knew exactly when to push and exactly when to let others make mistakes.

And then there were two.

Jon P and Richard broke away from the pack, engines screaming, Heat teetering on the edge of catastrophe as they entered the final corner locked together inches apart, cards burned, no margin left to bluff. One mistake here wouldn’t cost points. It would cost the race.

Richard pushed hard, daring the engine to hold together just a moment longer.

Jon P answered, clean, controlled, perfectly timed, threading the line with the confidence of someone who trusts the math and the moment.

The corner snapped shut behind them.

Jon P crossed first.

The engine survived.
The line was held.
The legend was sealed.

Above ground, the race ended in cheers, disbelief, and the unmistakable realization that Heat doesn’t forgive it only remembers who kept it together when it mattered.
----
🧭⏳ THE ENGINES COOL. THE DUNGEON FALLS SILENT. ⏳🧭

When the smoke cleared and the noise finally stopped, the table did what it always does. It reset. The dragon returned to its hoard, still chewing thoughtfully. The track went quiet, rubber cooling where legends had just been decided. Cards were stacked. Dice behaved. For a moment. just a moment, it looked like restraint might win. It won’t. Because the calendar turns, and the stakes don’t drop, they escalate.

Power waits to be routed. Cities wait to be lit. And the year itself is lining up for one last reckless sprint toward midnight.

But first…
Another table. Another night. Another chance to prove we learned absolutely nothing.
----
🎲 WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW 🎲

🎉 New Players Welcome - First time at the table? Perfect. Rules will be taught clearly, confidently, and with only minimal dramatic exaggeration. Survival not guaranteed, but laughter is.
🎯 Game Selection - Games will be decided by group consensus, persuasive enthusiasm, or Jason showing up suspiciously prepared to teach something “real quick.” Expect tension. Expect chaos.
🎮 Got a Favorite Game? - Bring it. Pitch it. Defend it. Just be aware that loud games attract dragons, and fast games attract engineers with opinions.
🎭 Dress Code - Casual chaos. Bonus points for racing jackets, dungeon-delver energy, or anyone brave enough to wear something pink and claim it improves probability.
🍇 Etiquette - Steal routes respectfully. Make noise responsibly. If someone is eliminated, do not make eye contact with the dragon while it’s chewing.
⚠️ Warning - Overheating engines, overconfident looting, and excessive Clank may result in immediate consequences, public humiliation, or being eaten in front of your friends.
📜 Fun Fact - Heat only went two laps, yet still managed to compress an entire motorsport documentary into one final corner.
🧂 Table Talk - Encouraged. Loud reactions expected. If someone yells “I Charlatan your Burgle,” it is legally binding and must be respected.

— Your Faithless Pit Boss of Dragons, Dice, and Dubious Speed

📜 SINCE OUR LAST MEETUP…

🍪 A three-week Cookie Offering Cycle has been completed (Richard → Jason → Ryland). Scholars warn a fourth offering may summon something.
🍖 In an unexpected twist, the dragon accidentally discovered that Sylvan Lake residents’ pair exceptionally well with open flame — tender, smoky, and tragically under-seasoned.
⚡ Power Grid preparations for Dec 20th at Jon P’s are underway. Cities will be powered. Friendships may not be.
⚖️ A formal review concluded that using Charlatan to immediately benefit from Burgle is “technically” legal and ruled admissible under Catacombs law. Please note such a play automatically triggers the phrase “I Charlatan your Burgle.” The ethics committee refuses comment.
☕ Coffee consumption once again outpaced hydration, prompting renewed concern from absolutely no one.
🎆 NYE Board Game Night has been confirmed at Jon P’s house, where time, rules, and sobriety will lose all meaning simultaneously.