The bard's melodies faded into the background as the tavern filled with the lively chatter of patrons, the soft glow of lanterns casting long shadows across the worn wooden floors. Noon was quickly giving way to early evening, the passage of time marked by the steady stream of newcomers filtering into the tavern. Lyra bristled a bit, not sure if she wanted to be bothered with all the people.

Her gaze drifted lazily across the room, her eyes drawn to the figure of another elf who had just entered. He wasn't particularly remarkable, but the sight of another of her kind never failed to catch her attention. A High Elf, she noted with a twinge of curiosity, their presence in Skyrim an anomaly in itself. 

She vaguely recalled whispers of some historical blood-feud between their races, but the details eluded her, lost in the hazy fog of her minimal knowledge of history. She pushed the thought aside, opting instead to quietly observe the newcomer as he mingled with other patrons.

The last remnants of her meal disappeared slowly, her decision to stay the night solidified. The familiar routine of seeking refuge in a the warmth of a tavern's walls felt comforting, a temporary reprieve. 

With a determined stride, Lyra made her way back to the bar, where Hulda stood pouring drinks. She signaled for another mead, her hand trembling slightly as she downed it in a single gulp. The alcohol burned a bit as it slid down her throat, its effects mingling with the remnants of skooma from the night before. The room began to spin slightly, warmth enveloping her senses as she leaned against the bar for support.

"Another round, lass?" Hulda's voice cut through the fog, her concern evident in the furrow of her brow. Lyra waved her off with a dismissive gesture, a lopsided grin tugging at her lips. "Just taking the edge off, Hulda," she quipped, her words slurring slightly as she gratefully accepted a third mead.

With a wobbly step, Lyra returned to her previous spot on the bench, her eyes drawn once again to the enigmatic High Elf who sat nearby. He seemed distant, lost in his own thoughts, a shadow of melancholy lingering around him like a shroud. Feeling a surge of boldness fueled by liquid courage, Lyra scooted closer, her curiosity piqued by the air of sadness that surrounded him. 

"Hey there, stranger," she chirped, her words a tad too loud in the intimate confines of the tavern. "What's got you looking so glum? Someone steal your sweetroll?" She chuckled at her own joke, though the elf looked less than amused. Undeterred, Lyra pressed on, determined to break through his icy demeanor with her irreverent charm. Did she have charm? She was about to find out.