Even with the changes, Demelza had made good on her promise to play music at the tavern to the tavern-goers' delight. Right now, however, she was not there in a performing capacity, though she did have her mandolin perched on her lap. She picked at it quietly, the sweet notes mixing in with the conversation in little bursts like fireflies on the night air.

Come guess me this riddle: what beats pipes and fiddle?
What's hotter than mustard and wilder than cream?
What best wets your whistle? What's clearer than crystal?
What's sweeter than honey and stronger than steam?

What will make the dumb talk? What will make the lame walk?
The elixir of life and philospher's stone—

Demezla’s sweet voice cut off as she hit a wrong note. Flustered, she tried to regain her fingering but abandoned the task with a sigh. She let her mandolin fall on its strap as she propped her chin up with an elbow on the bar counter.

“You sure you don’t need help back there?"

It was a silly, playful question, given the speed of the evening. It was a low hum, not a mad rush.

Demelza sighed, brushing a rogue curl from her forehead as she shrugged. It was then her eyes drifted about the tavern. To the weary faces of the scattered patrons, each buried in their drink. She shrugged again.

“When I first got here, I—I gotta admit I was…not disgusted, just frustrated that everyone seemed so—so resigned to their fates.” She grimaced, shaking her head. “But I get it now. This place just sucks the will out of you. Like a bloodsucking leech, just draining you bit by bit until there’s nothing left.” She met Lovina’s eyes. “I think it’s getting me too.”