The interior of the inn appears undisturbed by the commotion of your battle on the steps. The bar is quite crowded, and from what little eavesdropping you can manage, most of the patrons are talking of little else but the shortage of iron and the dangerous roads to the south.
Near the bar you are hailed by a half-elven man in heavy armor. He raises his voice to be heard, but a stammer makes him slow to make himself clear even so.
“S-something about you two is f-familiar, child. Your manner reminds me of a sage I know b-by the name of Gorion.”
The woman seated next to him looks you up and down with a measuring eye. “’Tis almost a slight upon the man, but I see it too,” she comments.
“Jaheira! M-mind your tongue! These must be Gorion’s wards – he wrote of you often. I am K-Khalid, and this Jaheira.”
Jaheira rises to her feet, offering her hand. “We are old friends of your foster-father. He is not with you? I must assume the worst.”
They look deeply moved by the news of Gorion’s death. “If he has p-passed, we share in your loss,” Khalid murmurs.
Jaheira puts in, “Gorion often worried for your safety, even at the expense of his own. He had asked that Khalid and I become your guardians in the event of his death, but you are no longer children. Your choice of companions should be your own.”
If accepted, Jaheira continues, “We are on our way to Nashkel – there are rumors of strange things happening at the mine. I trust you’ve heard of the iron shortage? It affects us all, especially we who depend upon our arms. Khalid and I have arranged to meet the mayor, Berrun Ghastkill, and see if we can ferret out the source of the problem.”