It was a dark and stormy night, the kind books and stories like to start out with. All the local businesses were closed except the local tavern, and the sounds of last call came from inside. A short, stout figure stumbled drunkenly through the front door. It cast a shadow across the street from the flickering torchlight of the inn, a shadow which danced and staggered more than the drunken figure. Too short to be human, too narrow to be a dwarf, and lacking the ears of a goblin, the figure could only be a gnome.
As the apparition moved away from the back-lighting of the door, it revealed a gnomish male, balding with deep red sideburns and beard tied neatly into a braid. His clothes were expensive, well-worn leather, with the marks of many explosions and fires covering them. Around his waist hung an elaborate tool belt - he appeared to have every tool imaginable, and a few indescribable, stored in it. In his right hand he carried a pint mug - nearly half his height - still full enough to spill as he moved.
His movement, though drunken, was not without purpose. For him it was still early, and he was just drunk enough to begin. He is The Drunken gNome, his given name forgotten long ago in a fitful moment of sobriety. It is his task - his destiny - to design the undesignable, build the unbuildable, create the impossible, and to explode whatever else is left. But he does not face this task alone. He has his trusty mug, ever at his side. He also has many friends who join him; these are the people who look at the world, attempt to decide whether to build it up or tear it down, and end up doing both.
This is their place. This is the home of The Drunken gNome, and the galleries of he and his friends.