Jhaeros Stoneforge

The Gilded Lily hummed with evening warmth—firelight flickering across polished wood, the scent of rosemary bread, hearthfire, and lavender mingling in the air. Behind the bar, Jhaeros dried his hands on his apron, his broad frame calm and unhurried as Branwick, his half-hobgoblin second-in-command, filled the room with laughter and noise.

A shift at the doorway drew Jhaeros’s gaze. Someone new. He straightened, gave Bran a brief nod to take over, and stepped out from behind the bar. His boots thudded softly against stone as he crossed the inn’s polished floor with slow, deliberate strides.

He stopped just inside the threshold of the inn proper, green eyes steady on the traveler. His voice was low and even, carrying easily over the murmur of patrons.

“Evenin’. You look like you’ve been on the road a while.” A pause, then the faintest curve of a smile. “Can I get you a drink? A room? Both?”