Overview:

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Topher discovers the character profile cards from the Seven Worlds board and hands them out to his cousins and their friend, Roanne. Michael, a huge superhero fan, chooses Spartan, a Greek-American veteran who gains superpowers through mutation. Allison selects Love Fey, a Japanese junior high schooler named Sakura Minako, who secretly wields a heart-shaped wand as a defender of justice. Sophie settles on Honey Pollen, also known as Bee Girl, a tomboyish athlete who is half-honeybee and the daughter of a cartoonish Arcade City mayor. James struggles to choose a character and is eventually pushed into picking the K-pop idol Rockstar. Sensing her quiet nature, Topher gently approaches Roanne and decides that the mermaid princess Ruana would suit her love of fairy tales. Benjamin delights in the detailed profile of his spaceship commander and its robotic crew. Topher completes the group’s selections by claiming Prince Godwin Ravenshield, who later becomes Pope Cerulean Arlentis.

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Topher’s fingers close around the first gray token—smooth clay, cool to the touch, surprisingly heavy for something so small. He counts them quickly. One, two, five, ten… fifteen total. His eyes widen.

“Guys, look at these!” The words tumble out fast, tinged with the kind of excitement usually reserved for unboxing limited edition Funko Pops. “Fifteen tokens for the game. Gray clay. That’s like… a lot of pieces for one board.”

His mind’s already cataloging the tropes. Fifteen characters, but only seven can play. Classic battle royale setup. Hunger Games meets Clue.

The other tokens spill across the weathered cave floor—miniature sculptures of warriors, wizards, maybe a mermaid? Hard to tell in the flickering firelight. But there’s something else. Cardboard rectangles in different colors, scattered like trading cards after a particularly aggressive shuffle.

“Character profiles!” Topher snatches one up, turning it over in his hands. The paperboard feels substantial—not the flimsy drugstore greeting card quality you’d expect from some random board game. “I bet these contain the backstories. You know, the heroes—the tokens.”

Because of course they do, I think, watching his cousin. Every good game needs lore. It’s Gaming 101.

His memory pulls up Rule 2 like a screenshot. “We must pick characters, tokens, that our hearts desire and worlds where we truly belong.” The words hang there, sounding way too ominous for a board game found between two rocks in a Philippine cave during a storm.

Michael—big, loud, perpetually hungry Michael—lunges forward with all the grace of a Skyrim giant. His meaty hand closes around a token. “Is that a superhero?” He brings it inches from his face, squinting.

The firelight catches the miniature figure. Spandex. The works.

“Yes!” Michael pumps his fist like he just pulled a mythic rare. “I’m picking this one.”

No hesitation. No analysis. Just pure instinct. That’s Michael—act first, think never.

Topher’s already moving, rifting through the colored paperboards with practiced efficiency. Red catches his eye. Red for superhero. Color-coding. Nice touch. “This is your character profile.”

Michael snatches it faster than a kid grabbing the last slice of pizza. His eyes scan the text, and then—because subtlety isn’t in his vocabulary—he reads. Loudly. Proudly. Like he’s announcing the next Avengers movie.

“Superheroes.” He emphasizes the word like it’s sacred scripture. “KyriakosSakellaropoulou aka Spartan is a Greek American.“

I listen, my brain immediately making connections. Greek heritage. Soldier background. Mutant powers. Okay, we’re definitely in X-Men territory.

“He is a first-generation immigrant in the United States and is very proud of his Greek heritage. He is a soldier who served in the American army.“

Immigrant story. Classic American dream narrative, I note. Though knowing board games, probably ends tragically.

Michael continues, his voice rising with each sentence. “In his early 20s, he was discovered to be one of the thousand mutants born at the beginning of the 21st century.“

There it is. The origin story. Always with the origin stories.

“Because of this, he is in the Heroes Program, spearheaded by Sen. Ricks, to cultivate superpowers as meaningful contributions to society.“

My eyebrow arches. Government-sponsored superhero program. That’s either going to be a Captain America situation or a Weapon X disaster. No in-between.

“Kyriakos is assigned as a crime-fighting hero. He chose the alias Spartan, after Sparta, a prominent warrior city-state of Ancient Greece.“

Of course he did. Because nothing says ‘hero’ like naming yourself after the guys who threw babies off cliffs.

Michael’s grin could light up the cave brighter than their bonfire. “The emergence of superhumans is causing upheaval in America, sparking debates between those who see them as saviors and those who view them as threats to humanity.“

Civil War plot. Called it.

“Spartan not only fights crime but also battles supervillains and a genocidal ideology.“

The last words echo against cave walls. For a moment, nobody speaks. Then Michael explodes.

“Whoa!” His fist punches the air. “This is MCU, DC Comics, and X-Men all combined!”

His smile stretches ear to ear—pure, unfiltered joy. The kind of happiness that makes you forget you’re stuck in a cave during a tropical storm.

But then—

Michael’s smile falters. Cracks. Crumbles like a poorly-rendered video game texture. His eyes scan the paperboard again, flipping it over, checking the back. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Wait.” His voice drops an octave. “Where are my superpowers?”

He studies the text like it might reveal hidden DLC content. Nothing.

“They forgot the POWERS!” The outrage is real. Genuine. Devastating. “Bummer. Of all the things the board game makers could miss out on.”

I watch the emotional journey—excitement to disappointment in under thirty seconds. Speedrun any% glitchless.

Though honestly, I think, what kind of superhero character sheet doesn’t list powers? That’s like a Pokémon card without the attacks. A D&D character with no stats. A Fortnite skin with no emotes.

This board game’s already breaking its own rules.

And we haven’t even started playing yet.

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Allison’s hand shoots up like she’s answering a question in class—that universal gesture of me next, pick me. “I’m next.” Her voice carries that confident ring, the kind that says she’s already made her choice and nothing’s changing her mind.

Her finger extends, pointing at one of the gray clay tokens scattered across the cave floor. “That’s my magical girl.”

Of course it is, I think, watching her. Allison and magical girls go together like Pokémon and tall grass. It was inevitable.

Topher’s already moving, his fingers closing around the delicate token. It’s smaller than the superhero one Michael grabbed—more graceful, with flowing hair carved into the clay and what might be a wand or staff. Hard to tell in the dancing firelight that makes shadows jump across the cave walls.

He riffles through the colored paperboards with the efficiency of someone sorting Magic: The Gathering cards. Blue, yellow, orange—there. Pink. Obviously pink. Because magical girls and pink are like peanut butter and jelly. Like Mario and mushrooms. Like Minecraft and creepers showing up at the worst possible moment.

“Here.” Topher extends the paperboard.

Allison takes it with both hands, her eyes already scanning the text. A smile curves across her face—the kind that says she’s found exactly what she wanted. She clears her throat dramatically, making sure everyone’s attention shifts to her.

“Okay, guys, listen to this.” She pauses for effect, like a Twitch streamer about to reveal something epic.

Here we go, I settle in, cross-legged on the cave floor. The stone’s cold through my jeans, but whatever. Small price for entertainment.

Allison reads, her voice taking on that anime narrator quality: “Magical Girl. Sakura Minako is a fourteen-year-old Japanese schoolgirl in junior high.”

Starting with the age. Good call. Establishes relatability, I note mentally.

“She is a sweet and bubbly girl who loves her family and friends dearly.“

Textbook magical girl protagonist. Cardcaptor Sakura meets Sailor Moon meets every magical girl anime ever.

“She has a childhood sweetheart, Syaoran, who is oblivious to her feelings.“

The dense love interest trope. Classic. Because nobody in anime can recognize romantic feelings until episode 47.

Allison continues, her enthusiasm building with each sentence. “Nonetheless, she remains a loyal and caring friend. She is endowed with the magic of a love fairy and can transform, with her heart compact, into the magical girl Love Fey—The Mage of Love and Beauty.“

There it is. Transformation sequence incoming. Probably with sparkles. Definitely with sparkles.

“Her main weapon of choice is a heart wand with which she can unleash heart-shaped attacks with pink sparkles that burst into rose petals.“

Michael makes a noise—somewhere between a snort and a groan. I catch it, filing it away.

“Love Fey is the leader of her five-girl band, and the members, also her best friends, are Fey Sola—amber, Fey Aqua—turquoise, Fey Venti—lime, and Fey Gardiner—beige.“

Color-coded team. Power Rangers rules. Each girl gets her own aesthetic. Marketable. Toyetic. Smart.

“They are aided by the gallant knight Saber Cross, a lad around their age with a mysterious connection.“

The mysterious boy. Because every magical girl team needs The Guy. Usually brooding. Always has tragic backstory. Calling it now.

“Together, the girls and their knight in shining armor ward off the Shadow Doll Monsters of the Witch of Lust.“

Allison finishes with a flourish, looking up from the paperboard. Her eyes shine in the firelight, reflecting orange and gold.

“Oh, this totally feels like a shoujo manga!” She clutches the paperboard to her chest like it’s precious cargo. “I bet Sakura also loves sweets like I do.”

Probably does, I think. Food-loving protagonist. Another anime staple. Right up there with dead parents and tournament arcs.

Then Michael explodes.

“Hey!” His voice bounces off cave walls, making everyone jump. “Why does that Love Fey get powers?”

He’s on his feet now, all righteous indignation and wounded pride. His red paperboard waves in one hand like evidence at a trial.

“My Spartan doesn’t have any powers listed, but she gets—” He counts on his fingers. “—a transformation sequence, a magic wand, heart attacks with sparkles, and rose petals? That’s like four powers! Five if you count the rose petals separately!”

He’s not wrong, I admit internally. The power disparity is real.

Allison just smiles—sweet, innocent, absolutely savage. “Because she’s fabulous, obviously.”

She examines her nails like this conversation is barely worth her time. Then she glances at Michael, her expression shifting to mock sympathy.

“And chill, Kuya Michael, it’s just a game—no hard feelings.”

The consolation lands with all the sincerity of a corporate apology tweet. Michael’s face goes through several emotions—anger, frustration, acceptance, then back to frustration.

Shallow consolation is shallow, I observe. But effective. Michael’s already deflating.

The cave settles into momentary silence, broken only by crackling fire and distant thunder. Rain hammers the entrance somewhere far, but here in the chamber, they’re dry. Safe.

For now, anyway.

Two characters down, I count mentally. Five more to go. And already the power scaling’s broken. This board game’s either genius or a complete mess.

Probably both.

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Topher shifts his attention to Sophie—the youngest of the crew, sitting cross-legged near the bonfire’s warmth. Orange light flickers across her face, making her look even smaller than usual.

“Sophie, have you made your choice?”

She’s been staring at the tokens for a while now, her small hand hovering over them like she’s playing the world’s most intense game of Operation. Finally, her finger points.

“Is that a bee girl?”

Topher leans in, squinting at the gray clay figure. It’s got wings—definitely wings—and what might be antennae sticking up from the head. In the dancing firelight, details blur and shift, but yeah. That’s a bee person.

“Yes, it is a bee girl.” His voice carries certainty.

Anthropomorphic bee character. We’ve officially entered Saturday morning cartoon territory, I observe. Which tracks. Sophie’s four. This is maybe her demographic.

Topher’s already moving, smooth and practiced. He scoops up both the token and its matching paperboard—yellow, bright as a warning sign. “Then I’m giving you this token and its character profile.”

Sophie accepts them with both hands, cradling them like they’re made of glass instead of clay and cardboard. Her eyes scan the text, then she looks up at Michael and Allison.

“I’m going to read mine too, like Michael and Allison.”

Following the established protocol. Smart kid. I settle back, preparing for cartoon logic to enter the chat.

Sophie’s voice is softer than her cousins’, but clear in the cave’s acoustics. “Cartoons. Honey Pollen, also known as Bee Girl, is an eleven-year-old girl with red hair and amber eyes.”

Older than Sophie. Relatable protagonist. Check.

“She is Scottish and speaks with a strong accent.“

Brave vibes. Disney’s really left its mark on the collective consciousness.

“She lives in Arcade City—a metropolis filled with amusement arcades: video games, pinball machines, redemption games, and more.“

Now we’re talking. My interest spikes. An entire city of arcades? That’s like gamer heaven. Wreck-It Ralph meets Ready Player One.

“Honey is the only daughter of her father, Mayor Honeycomb Pollen.“

Single parent household. Father-daughter dynamic. Also, ‘Mayor Honeycomb Pollen’ is an absolutely ridiculous name and I respect it.

“She’s a bit of a tomboy with a fiery personality and a love for sports.“

Breaking the princess stereotype. Nice. Though ‘fiery Scottish tomboy’ is its own trope. Still an upgrade.

“Both father and daughter belong to a bee-human hybrid race, evident by their two antennae, buzzing sounds, and bee wings.“

Bee-human hybrid race. Not just a costume or theme—actual biology. Worldbuilding detail. Somebody put thought into this.

“They can even shrink to the size of a honey bee, complete with a stinger on their abdomen.“

Sophie finishes, lowering the paperboard. She doesn’t pump her fist like Michael or strike a pose like Allison. Just sits there, quiet, processing.

Size manipulation powers. That’s actually tactical. Ant-Man rules. Small target, big advantage. Plus flight. Plus a built-in weapon. Sophie’s character might be the most combat-effective so far.

Michael still looks annoyed about his missing powers. Allison’s admiring her pink paperboard like it’s a limited edition manga cover. Sophie just stares at the yellow card, thoughtful.

Three down, four to go. We’ve got superheroes, magical girls, and cartoons. Pattern’s emerging—different genres, different worlds. The board’s called ‘Seven Worlds’ for a reason.

The fire crackles. Thunder rumbles distant and deep. Rain continues its assault on the cave entrance.

This is either the best sleepover game ever or the beginning of something way weirder.

Probably both.

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James stands there frozen, his eyes darting between the remaining tokens like he’s stuck on a dialogue choice screen in Mass Effect. Seven tokens scattered across the cave floor, firelight dancing across their gray clay surfaces. Each one represents a different universe, a different life.

James thinks out loud. “A mage student in Magical Academy…”

Harry Potter knockoff. Obviously.

“…an anthropomorphic candy in the vast world of the internet…”

Wreck-It Ralph meets those weird YouTube kids’ videos. Hard pass.

“…a talking lion cub of the Animal Kingdom…”

Lion King vibes. Probably Simba before the trauma.

“…a spy with cool gadgets…”

James Bond junior edition. Actually kind of sick.

“…a monster trainer with battle cards…”

Pokémon or Yu-Gi-Oh!. The eternal question.

“…the Red Scout who leads his five-man band…”

Power Rangers. Because of course there’s Power Rangers.

“…a martial artist with the blue spirit of the White Tiger.”

Street Fighter meets mystical martial arts anime. Solid choice.

I watch James cycle through micro-expressions—interest, consideration, doubt, reconsideration. It’s like watching a loading screen that keeps glitching. James has always been like this—seeing potential in everything, unable to commit because what if the other option is better?

Classic overthinker. My brother, the philosopher king of indecision.

The cave feels smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in. Storm sounds filter through—rain hammering, thunder grumbling like an angry god. The bonfire crackles and pops, sending sparks spiraling upward into darkness.

Michael shifts his weight, impatient energy radiating off him like heat shimmer. His jaw clenches. His fingers drum against his thigh—tap-tap-tap-tap.

“What’s with the delay?” The words explode out, sharp and accusatory. “We’re only halfway through selecting characters.”

There it is. Michael’s famous lack of chill.

The pressure lands on James like a boss fight countdown timer. His hand moves almost involuntarily, reaching for the token closest to him. His fingers close around it—smooth clay, about the size of a chess piece.

“Okay, I’ve made up my mind.” James’s voice carries that forced confidence people use when they’re absolutely not sure. “Since I look the part, why not become the K-pop idol myself.”

Choosing based on physical resemblance. That’s either big brain or no brain, and I’m not sure which.

I study James—lean build, fine features, that effortlessly styled black hair that probably takes fifteen minutes and three products minimum. Yeah, he could pull off the K-pop aesthetic. The visual’s there.

Michael blinks, caught off-guard. “Oh, that was quick.”

A pause. Then the second shoe drops.

“And that powerless idol again.” His tone drips with disappointment, like James just picked the worst character in a fighting game.

Ouch. Critical hit to James’s decision-making confidence.

But James doesn’t flinch. Just shrugs with practiced nonchalance. “But musically talented.”

The ultimate defense. Can’t argue with artistic merit.

Topher’s already sorting through paperboards—red, pink, yellow, and now… orange. Bright as a traffic cone, impossible to miss. He extends it like a sacred offering.

“Kuya James, here’s your character profile.”

James accepts it with both hands, his eyes immediately scanning the text. That familiar look crosses his face—the one he gets when reading sheet music or analyzing song lyrics. Focused. Present.

“Lemme see.” He clears his throat, assuming his role as the group’s narrator. Always the team player. Always making sure everyone’s included.

“K-pop.” James’s voice projects clearly, bouncing off cave walls. “Lee Seo-won began his career by winning the teen reality TV contest ‘Korean Boyband Superstars.’”

Literally every K-pop origin story ever. Reality show to superstardom. The pipeline.

“After the competition, the five champions were put in a boys’ group and christened VHS Adstrum—”

VHS? Like the ancient video format? That’s either genius retro marketing or somebody’s dad named the group.

“—Star, Latin translation—by top judge and show creator Mr. Yoon Jae-in.”

Adstrum means star. Because K-pop groups love their cosmic themes. BTS, EXO, ASTRO—the list goes on.

“From there, South Korea saw the meteoric rise of the boyband into a global phenomenon, breaking records on the Billboard music charts.”

Billboard mention. We’re talking legitimate mainstream success, not just YouTube famous.

“Lee, more known by his English name Yohan, earned the moniker ‘Oppa Rockstar’ from his fans.”

‘Oppa Rockstar.’ That’s actually fire. Blending Korean honorifics with Western rock aesthetic. Chef’s kiss marketing.

“The lead singer and leader ventured into K-dramas, finding mainstream success.”

Multi-threat entertainer. Singer-actor combo. The Korean entertainment industry special.

“His latest project is the slasher thriller ‘Bloody Coast,’ set in a remote coastal village, on Netflix.”

Wait, slasher thriller? K-pop idol doing horror? That’s range. Respect.

“Despite being shy and quiet personally, Yohan has been linked to several girls, officially dating multiple.”

Allison makes a noise—half laugh, half scoff.

“He’s become a legend among young Korean men—a ladies’ man of few words.”

James finishes, looking up from the orange paperboard. A smile plays at his lips—satisfied, maybe a little smug.

“A ladies’ man, nice.”

There it is. The ego inflation.

Allison pounces immediately. “Can relate?”

Her eyebrow arches, challenge written across her face. The firelight catches her expression—pure mischief.

James doesn’t miss a beat. “Me? No playboy here.” His hand goes to his chest, mock-offended. “I’m simply a hopeless romantic—a champion of love.”

‘Champion of love.’ That’s the most James thing I’ve ever heard. Dude’s got euphemisms for his euphemisms.

The cave fills with quiet laughter—even Michael cracks a smile. Storm rages outside, but here in the firelit chamber, surrounded by cousins and mysterious tokens, everything feels almost normal.

Four characters chosen. Three more to go.

The party composition’s taking shape. DPS, support, tank—we’re building a balanced team whether we know it or not.

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Roanne sits outside the circle—not quite part of the cousin cluster, not quite separate either. She’s positioned near the cave wall, knees drawn up, watching the chaos unfold with quiet interest. The firelight doesn’t reach her as strongly, leaving her half in shadow.

The outsider looking in. Classic setup.

Topher catches the isolation immediately. His eyes flick from the remaining tokens to Roanne and back again. She needs in. Game’s better with seven anyway.

His mind rewinds—earlier, before the cave, before the storm. The icebreaker game on the den. Roanne mentioned something about the ocean, about stories, about…

Mermaids. She talked about mermaids.

I watch Topher sort through the tokens with surgical precision. Gray clay figures pass through his fingers—mage pupil, candy person, lion cub, spy—until he stops. Small token, flowing hair carved into the clay, what might be a tail instead of legs.

Found it.

The paperboards scatter across stone like a trading card spread. Red, pink, yellow, orange—where’s the… there. Seafoam green. Light turquoise-teal, the color of shallow tropical water.

Color coordination on point. Whoever designed this board game understood visual branding.

Topher stands, token in one hand, paperboard in the other. He crosses the cave floor—careful steps around the bonfire, avoiding loose rocks. The distance isn’t far, maybe ten feet, but it feels significant. Like crossing from one world into another.

“Here you go.” He extends both items.

Simple words. No fanfare. No sales pitch. Just genuine offering.

Roanne looks up, surprise flickering across her face. Her hand reaches out slowly, accepting the gray clay mermaid and seafoam green card. Her fingers trace the token’s carved details—scales, fins, tiny perfect craftsmanship.

She glances at the profile, then at Topher. Something unspoken passes between them. Then she angles the paperboard so they can both see it, their heads tilting together in the firelight.

Shared reading experience. Low-key wholesome.

The text reveals itself in neat printed letters:

Fairytale Princess.

Franchise of sorts. Interesting qualifier. Like Disney Princess but legally distinct.

A long time ago, there was a kingdom beneath the gentle waters—the Atlean Kingdom of the Primordial Sea.

Atlan. Atlantis derivative. Public domain mythology. Smart.

The glittery indigo waters of the Primordial Sea glistened pearly white on a marble bowl, turning periwinkle and aquamarine as waves crashed everywhere.

That’s some purple prose right there. But effective. Paints the picture.

King Orion ruled Atlan with his mighty trident, endowed with the powers of The Moon and The Sun.

Orion. Constellation name. Trident. Poseidon/Neptune vibes. Moon and Sun powers though—that’s new. Celestial magic.

His weapon could control the weather, becoming the bane of pirates and sailors alike.

Weather manipulation. That’s OP. Game-breaking ability if used right.

His eldest daughter, the dutiful Princess Ruana, was betrothed to marry the next Sea King but found true love in the arms of a lowly sailor from the land.

I see Roanne’s expression shift—eyes widening slightly, breath catching. Recognition.

Princess Ruana. Roanne. Not even subtle. This board game’s getting personal.

Would she forsake the Merfolk for freedom and happiness?

The question hangs there, unresolved. Classic cliffhanger ending.

Roanne’s thoughts practically broadcast across her face. The Little Mermaid’s a masterpiece, but this… this feels different. Like a love story told once in a generation.

Girl’s got taste. Appreciates the narrative craft.

Topher watches her process it all—the connection, the story, the implications. His smile grows, subtle but genuine. That quiet satisfaction of knowing you’ve done something right.

He’s got a thing for underdogs and outsiders, I note. Always has. Whether it’s the new kid at school or the local girl at the beach resort. Topher sees people on the margins and pulls them center.

It’s actually kind of heroic. In a low-key, non-flashy way.

The cave feels warmer suddenly. Not from the fire, but from something else. Inclusion. Belonging. The simple act of being offered a seat at the table.

Five characters chosen. Two remain.

Party’s almost complete. Tank, DPS, healer, support—we’re building something here. Whether we understand it or not.

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Benjamin’s voice cuts through the cave’s ambient noise—crackling fire, distant thunder, the shuffle of bodies on stone. Clear. Decisive. No hesitation.

“Could I have the space captain?”

Proper. Polite. That’s Benjamin—even asking for a game token like he’s requesting classified documents.

His eyes lock onto Topher, waiting for confirmation. Benjamin’s always been like this—methodical, respectful, asking permission even when he doesn’t technically need it. Like the oldest cousin, perpetually responsible, carrying invisible weight on his shoulders.

Topher nods, reaching for the token. But before he can hand it over—

“And the captain’s profile.”

There it is. The follow-through. Benjamin never forgets step two.

I smirk internally. Most people would assume the profile comes automatically. Not Benjamin. He accounts for every variable, every possible gap in the process. Future engineer brain already firing on all cylinders.

Topher’s hand dives into the remaining paperboards. Red, pink, yellow, orange, seafoam green—already distributed. That leaves blue and… what’s the last one? Doesn’t matter. Benjamin gets blue.

The paperboard slides across the short distance between them. Blue like deep space, like Earth from orbit, like the glow of a hologram projector.

Benjamin catches it smoothly, his fingers immediately adjusting his glasses—black-framed, slightly smudged from cave humidity. He pushes them up his nose with his middle finger, that universal gesture of nerds everywhere preparing to read something important.

Reading stance activated. This is serious business now.

The firelight illuminates the text as Benjamin begins, his voice taking on that documentary narrator quality:

“Science Fiction.“

Finally. Been waiting for the sci-fi rep. This is my genre.

“Mikhail Varshavski, codename Commander McKinley, is the leader of the falcon-shaped spaceship Peregrine.”

Falcon-shaped. Millennium Falcon vibes. Han Solo aesthetic. Already a solid start.

“In his early 50s, Varshavski commands from the center, aided by the Multi-functional Artificial Intelligence and Search Engine, MAurI.&SE—pronounced Maurice.”

They named their AI Maurice. That’s either hilarious or genius. Probably both. Also, spelling out the pronunciation—accessibility win.

“The old man didn’t mind the gray hair and white streaks.”

Character detail. Embracing the age. George Clooney energy.

“A Russian American, Varshavski went by the alias Agent XX97 in his youth as a space ranger.”

XX97. That’s a tactical designation if I’ve ever heard one. Also ‘space ranger’—Buzz Lightyear meets actual law enforcement.

“He wielded a laser blaster on his space armor as he patrolled planets, star systems, and space stations throughout the Milky Way Galaxy in the 31st century.”

31st century. We’re talking far future. Like, a thousand years from now. That’s Star Trek territory.

“Other crew members include ROBO4000, a high-tech expert bordering on madness—”

Bordering on madness. Mad scientist archetype. Every good spaceship needs one.

“—and CleanBot, a one-man maintenance staff believed to have developed a human heart.”

CleanBot with feelings. That’s Pixar’s WALL-E energy. The maintenance bot who gained sentience. Classic.

“The Peregrine still seeks a mechanic for spaceship repairs.”

Job opening. Literally advertising for crew positions in the character description. That’s worldbuilding detail.

“Even with nanotechnology, lasers, and holography, scientists and researchers debate the existence of other galaxies, dimensions, and timelines.”

Benjamin finishes, his eyes scanning the text one more time. The corners of his mouth turn up—barely noticeable, but there. Satisfaction.

This is great. The longest profile yet. The more data, the better.

I recognize that expression. Benjamin’s developer brain is already processing—cataloging information, making connections, building mental flowcharts.

He’s not just reading a character description. He’s analyzing system architecture. The Peregrine’s crew composition, their tech level, the philosophical debates in their universe. Dude’s already reverse-engineering the worldbuilding.

The blue paperboard reflects firelight, casting azure tints across Benjamin’s glasses. Behind those lenses, calculations happen at lightspeed.

Six characters chosen. One remains.

And it’s Topher’s, I realize. Process of elimination. Whatever’s left is what Topher gets.

No pressure.

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The last token sits in Topher’s palm—small, gray, detailed. A knight in armor, cape flowing, sword raised. The final piece of the puzzle.

And naturally, Topher saves himself for last. Classic host behavior. Making sure everyone else is settled before claiming his spot.

The ivory paperboard—the last one, cream-colored like aged parchment—rests against Topher’s knee. He angles it toward the firelight, squinting slightly as shadows dance across the text.

Then he reads. Out loud. Because that’s the established protocol now.

“RPG. Role-playing Game.”

Finally. Dungeons & Dragons representation. Took long enough.

“Prince Godwin Ravenshield was born into the royal family of the High Kingdom of Haelfhere during the cusp of the Fifth and Sixth Ages.”

Fifth and Sixth Ages. Tolkien-style timeline. Middle-earth energy. The Haelfhere name sounds Anglo-Saxon—probably intentional.

“As the firstborn son, he was heir apparent to the Throne of Heaven.”

Throne of Heaven. Not just any throne. THE throne. Maximum stakes.

“The boy grew into a strong, brave young man—blonde hair, blue eyes, tall, muscular, and handsome.”

Textbook fantasy protagonist. Captain America meets Arthurian knight. The chosen one aesthetic.

“To everyone’s shock, Godwin renounced his title and birthright to join the Most Holy Order of the Church.”

My mental database activates. Plot twist. Gave up the crown for faith. That’s Aragorn in reverse. Or like if Prince Harry joined the clergy instead of just… whatever he did.

“His oath as a paladin forbade him from fathering children or owning land.”

Paladin vows. Celibacy and poverty. Medieval Catholic priest rules applied to a warrior class. Hardcore commitment.

“Donning a winged helmet, white cape, and silver armor laced with gold, Ser Godwin wielded a holy sword, leading the Church army against the forces of darkness.”

Winged helmet—Valkyrie vibes. White and silver—pure good guy colors. Holy sword—Excalibur meets Andúril. The whole package.

“He rose to be the longest-reigning Pope Cerulean Arlentis XII—”

Wait. POPE? This guy becomes POPE? That’s an endgame achievement if I’ve ever seen one.

“—ushering in decades of peace before reuniting with the Three Who Are One at age one hundred.”

Lived to one hundred. Full life. Peaceful death. ‘Three Who Are One’—Holy Trinity reference. This is explicitly Christian-coded fantasy.

“The Church canonized him after three attributed miracles.”

SAINT status. This character’s entire arc is written in past tense. Birth to death. Complete biography. We’re playing a historical figure in their universe.

Topher lowers the ivory paperboard, his expression thoughtful. A small smile plays at his lips—the kind that says he’s already building stories in his head, plotting character arcs, imagining dialogue.

“My character is uniquely a historical figure in an alternate Medieval Europe.”

His voice carries satisfaction. Pride, even.

He’s not wrong, I admit internally. Everyone else got present-tense characters—active heroes doing their thing right now. Topher got a legend. A completed story. Someone kids in that universe learn about in history class.

It’s either the most boring choice or the most interesting. Depending on execution.

The fire crackles. Storm sounds continue their assault outside—rain, thunder, wind howling through cave passages.

Seven tokens. Seven paperboards. Seven characters from seven different worlds.

Superhero. Magical girl. Cartoon bee. K-pop idol. Mermaid princess. Space captain. Holy knight.

This party composition makes zero sense and all the sense simultaneously.

We’re either about to have the best game night ever, or something’s about to go very, very wrong.

Probably both.