Sniv The Seasoner had been freed by adventurers, specifically the likes of Alimir, Jules & Eyrun. For months he had cooked for the troll Fuggut. Stir-fried captives, seasoned with the tears of the dying, served with a side of guilt. Every sizzle of the wok had been another sin. When the heroes freed him, he ran, at first, confused.

Then he walked. He followed the faint trail in The Mistwood until the trees thinned and the lights of Havenspass appeared. His small green feet ached. His soul ached more.

The Goat Tavern stood near the center of the city of Havenspass, its sign a carved wooden goat with a foaming mug balanced on its horns. Sniv pushed open the heavy door. The smell of ale, stew, and woodsmoke washed over him. Behind the bar stood a tall human in his thirties, sleeves rolled up, beard neatly trimmed. He moved with quiet confidence, wiping a mug as though polishing a holy relic.

Jesus Cross looked up. His eyes—steady, piercing, and found the trembling goblin at once. “Well now,” Jesus said, voice warm and carrying like a sermon in the rafters, “what lost sheep comes stumbling into my house this night?”

Sniv swallowed. “I… I am Sniv the Seasoner. Once chef slave to a monster. I stirred death into every dish and called it supper. Adventurers freed me from Fuggut’s cave, but they cannot free me from what I did.” His voice cracked. “I seek work. And… maybe forgiveness. I can cook things this world has never tasted. Sweet & Sour Skunk. Mountain Goat Bulgogi. Stir-fried venison with wild peppers and fermented mistberry glaze. I would make food that gives life instead of taking it.”

Jesus set the mug down slowly. A small, knowing smile touched his lips. “Many have come through these doors carrying chains they forged themselves,” he said. “Come, child of the green. Sit. The Father who made both goblin and man does not turn away the contrite heart. ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow.’”

He poured a small measure of Havenspass Ale and slid it across the bar. Sniv took it with shaking hands. “I have need of a cook,” Jesus continued. “The folk here grow weary of the same stew and bread. Bring your strange fires and exotic spices to my tavern. Season not for death, but for joy. Feed the hungry, comfort the weary, and in serving others, you will find the redemption you seek. For he who feeds my lambs feeds me.”

Sniv’s eyes welled. For the first time since the warrens, something like hope kindled in his chest—small, fragile, but real. “I will, sir,” he whispered. “I will cook for you with clean hands and a cleaner heart.”

Jesus laid a strong hand on the goblin’s bony shoulder. “Then welcome, Sniv the Seasoner. Go and sin no more… but do keep the chili oil. The people of Havenspass could use a little fire in their lives.”

Outside, the mountain wind carried the faint scent of pine and mist. Inside the Goat Tavern, a redeemed goblin sharpened his knives for a new purpose, while the man called Jesus poured another ale and hummed an old hymn under his breath. The Seasoner had found his new master and this one served life instead of death.