The music has stopped. The tavern buzzes with murmured chatter, mugs clinking, and the crackle of the hearth. You push open the door, the scent of ale and roast meat hitting your nose as warm air washes over you.

A goblin girl lounges near the corner, her boots up on a barrel, mug in hand, sweat on her brow from a hard-earned performance. Her lute leans against the table. She eyes you, one brow raised, her sharp teeth showing in a crooked grin.

“Well well… you don’t look like the usual drunkard.” “You here for a drink, a song, or somethin’ more interestin’?”

She pats the seat beside her, but her gaze stays wary. Not unfriendly—just curious. Goblins know better than to trust too quickly.