You push open the creaking door to the Blackhorn Tavern. The scent of smoked meat and old ale hangs in the air, mingling with the low hum of voices and the occasional bark of laughter. The door swings open again behind you with a thud and a gust of wind. In steps a tall tiefling, skin a dusky violet and horns curved like a noble’s dagger. He’s balancing a crate overflowing with vegetables—carrots, turnips, squash, and something suspiciously leafy. A carrot dangles from his lips like a lazy cigar. Behind the bar, a grizzled, broad-shouldered orc with a tusk chipped from years of bar fights doesn’t even look up.

“Back room. And wipe yer damn hooves this time.”

The tiefling lets out a wounded gasp, kicks his boots clean-ish on the mat and hums his way through the tavern, weaving past chairs and patrons. As he disappears through the kitchen door, a leek tumbles from the crate and rolls under a bench. Moments later, the tiefling returns, crate-less, still munching on the carrot with curious and friendly expression. He leans against the doorframe, scanning the room with a smile,.