Now gather close, ye barrel-brained sots, and lend ol’ Dave yer ears—and yer tankards if you’ve got ’em. This ain’t just another fireside yarn. No, this be a true tale, forged in chaos, soaked in rum, and sealed with a goblin kiss. I call it: The Goblin Queen’s Drinking Contest. And I swear on my liver’s last breath, it happened just like I’m about to tell ya… give or take a hallucination or two.
How It Began: One Bad Map and a Worse Idea
We were three days deep into a bog that smelled like ogre feet and broken dreams. Caiden had taken a shortcut—don’t ever let a rogue pick the route unless you’re lookin’ to get chased by territorial swamp ducks. Jane was scribblin’ notes about moss. Mike was muttering about retirement (again). And me? I was sniffin’ out the nearest barrel like a bloodhound raised on barley.
That’s when we stumbled, quite literally, into Gobshank Hollow, a goblin den carved into the root system of a massive, half-dead tree. We were surrounded before you could say “don’t shoot.” Dozens of the wee green devils, grinning with too many teeth and pointing rusted forks like they were spears. But instead of skewering us, they dragged us before their queen.
Her Royal Hoppiness
Queen Snagga the Sudsy. Six feet tall (with the crown), clad in beer-can armour, and belching authority like a warhorn. She sat atop a throne of old kegs, sipping from a jewelled stein the size of Caiden’s torso. Her goblin courtiers chanted, danced, and occasionally fell unconscious from overexertion.
Snagga squinted at me with one bloodshot eye and shouted, “You there! Beardy! You look like you can hold your brew. Fancy a duel of the drink?”
Now, there are moments in a man’s life when the gods test him. This was not one of those moments. This was pure, stupid destiny.
I stepped forward, slammed my mug on the dirt, and bellowed, “I AM DAVE THE KEGS—”
“Yeah yeah, Kegman, whatever,” she burped. “DRINK!”
The Contest: A Storm of Suds
The rules were simple: the last one conscious wins. No magic, no puking, no pants (don’t ask—goblin customs are weird). We sat at a splintery stump table, surrounded by goblins who chanted and flung pretzels like confetti. A new flagon was slammed down every minute, and each one was nastier than the last.
Round One: Goblin Gruel Grog – tasted like fermented celery and shame. Easy.
Round Two: Barkbite Bitter – made with real bark. And possibly real bites.
Round Four (we skipped Three ‘cause the goblins can’t count): Dragon’s Toe Ale – brewed with actual dragon toes. Crunchy.
By Round Seven, I was seeing double and talking in Dwarvish, which is impressive since I don’t speak Dwarvish. Queen Snagga was foaming at the mouth—either from the booze or rabies, no one could tell. We locked eyes across the table. She slammed another tankard. I matched her. The crowd went wild. Someone juggled live frogs.
The Aftermath: Royal Hangovers and a Diplomatic Victory?
It ended in a blur. One of us passed out. Or maybe we both did. But when I woke up, I was being paraded through Gobshank on a shield made of pizza trays. Queen Snagga had declared a draw, which in goblin culture means “unbreakable bond of drunken friendship.” She granted us safe passage, a barrel of Bogbrew Reserve, and a ceremonial frog.
Mike was fuming, Caiden was looting, Jane was quietly documenting frog mating habits, and I? I stood tall (okay, wobbled tall), one hand on my heart, the other raised high, shouting, “LONG LIVE THE GOBLIN QUEEN!”
One Last Round
So next time you hear someone scoff at the idea of goblins being civil, or you doubt the power of fermented diplomacy, just remember this tale. And raise a glass for Queen Snagga the Sudsy and the night Dave the Kegslayer almost became a goblin king.
Now—WHO WANTS A DRINK?!
