As they drew nearer to Whiterun, Lyra found solace in the familiar cacophony of bustling voices that carried on the wind. While she harbored no particular aversion to Finrod's company, she was a bit uneasy travelling with only one companion, especially a male. Habitually cautious, she kept her knife sheathed on her hip within easy reach, the strap left undone in readiness for any unforseen threat. She was feeling more trusting of Finrod as time went by, but she couldn't be too careful.

Finrod explained that he wasn’t entirely certain what the significance of the Inn was, beyond a stopping point on their journey. Lyra shrugged, accepting his answer; she was no more knowledgeable in the hidden symbolisms of her own vision. 

She agreed with his elaboration, however. “If we can afford it, I’d be pleased to avoid camping when we can. Nothing like waking up to a bear tearing at your dinner’s bones in the middle of the night, only a few meters from your face. Nearly soiled myself.” She crinkled her nose, disgusted with her own rudeness. Why she felt the need to add that last bit, she wasn’t sure. She certainly wasn’t adding any points to her allure with Finrod — though perhaps that was for the better, if they were to be travelling together; it was safer if he saw her as one of the guys, rough and tumble and not to be trifled with.

“I think we aim for it, though who knows what we’ll run into along the way. It’s more of a plan than any I have — which is none, really.” 

They’d reached the gates, and it didn’t escape Lyra that with Finrod beside her, the guard — the same one from the other day — didn’t have any teasing words for her this time. She was almost disappointed; some part of her looked forward to the jabs she’d planned on throwing back at him. Of course, she’d also imagined wringing his neck, but that would more likely place her in the Whiterun dungeons, and that would certainly put a damper on their quest.