Lars, The Keeper
“If Lars ever draws the sword, it’s already too late.”
There are stories in the walls. Names in the grain of the bar. Rooms that creak in ways no one can explain, but everyone respects. The Last Home forgets many things. It has never forgotten Lars.
He didn’t build the Inn.
He didn’t claim it.
But when he arrived, the floor settled beneath his boots like it had been waiting. The Inn shifted, slightly. Like a sigh.
No one remembers him being hired.
No one asked him to stay.
But he never left.
And The Pattern has been behaving itself ever since.
The Shape the World Made Room For
To the staff, he’s “Boss.” To gods, he’s a dangerous question with no safe answer.
To Dave, he’s just “Lars.” That might be the most terrifying part.
He looks human. Mostly. Big—not in the way of height, but in the way mountains are big. In the way people who’ve carried too much for too long are big. His shoulders remember wars his mouth will never speak of.
He wears barkeep sleeves. Old boots. A towel over one shoulder like a man clinging to the last ritual that still means something. His voice is low, even, and never uncertain. Not because he’s commanding. Because reality listens just in case.
His eyes have seen too much and decided not to hold it against you.
He doesn’t blink often.
He never looks surprised.
There’s a betting pool on what it would take to change that. So far:
- Demonic invasions
- A fire elemental with a drinking problem
- The Conspiracy Club’s “Lars Is Actually The Inn” presentation (Part VII)
None have worked.
The pot continues to grow.
The One Who Keeps the Silence
Lars tends the bar. Polishes glasses. Refuses to explain the sword behind him.
He doesn’t run the Inn.
He’s not in charge.
He’s just the one it listens to. Most of the time.
When trouble brews—cosmic, domestic, or otherwise—it’s rarely Lars who handles it. That’s what the Maids are for. But when Lars moves?
The Pattern flinches.
He doesn’t raise his voice.
He doesn’t throw punches.
He just looks. And suddenly the fight remembers it had somewhere else to be.
He makes the Inn feel safe. Not comfortable. Safe.
The Promise With No Name
There’s a sword behind the bar.
It has no name. That’s the first problem.
It’s not displayed. It’s not enchanted. It doesn’t glow, hum, or pulse.
But it’s real. More real than magic. More real than stories.
Mages who try to scry it lose the thread. Clerics who try to bless it go quiet. Divination circles around it like water around a stone too sharp to touch.
Lars never speaks of it.
Once a week, he takes it down and cleans it. The Inn goes silent when he does. Not because it’s afraid. Because it’s listening.
Some say the sword was forged from the bones of something that never should have lived. Others say it was never made at all—it just coalesced around a promise.
A promise he made to Tess.
He wouldn’t draw it again.
And so far, he hasn’t.
The History That Forgot Him
The Pattern records everything.
Except him.
There are songs of a nameless hero who shattered a pantheon to save the one he loved. Of a figure who walked away from destiny because it wasn’t worth the price. Of a man-shaped myth who ended a war by refusing to fight it.
Ask any scholar, and they’ll blink. The records blur. Names stutter. The math doesn’t add up.
The Inn never explains.
The Pattern refuses to.
Lars?
He just refills your drink and moves on.
The Weight Reflected in Others
- Freya: “He didn’t rescue me. He made sure I could walk out. That’s rarer.”
- Seraphis: “We made a pact. It still holds. So does he.”
- Lilith: No words. Just presence. Closer than usual.
- Tess: “He would’ve broken the Pattern. I asked him not to. He said ‘Alright.’”
- Lucian: “He needs no guardians. But I remain nearby. Just in case.”
- Rika: “He made me think. I hate it. He’s family.”
- Carmella: “My eternal steward. My unclaimed tragedy. My—” (clink) “—drink, thank you.”
- Marie: “He sees me. That’s enough.”
- Sylvie: “He’s wonderfully immune to nonsense. I plan to change that.”
- Dave: “Lars.” (sips pint, continues existing unbothered.)
The Day the Stillness Broke
The Maids vanished into what was supposed to be a harmless beach holiday.
The Inn shifted. The wine soured. The weather turned introspective.
Lars stood up.
Just stood.
The Pattern paused.
He walked out with a sigh, a towel, and the quiet rage of a man going to collect the only people allowed to be that stupid on his watch.
He returned three days later.
Slightly sunburnt. Not smiling.
The sea hasn’t made eye contact since.
The One the Inn Holds Too Close
The Last Home has existed longer than stars. Older than myths. Built into the soft places between rules.
It answers to no one.
But it lets Lars stay.
Not because he tamed it.
Because he didn’t try.
When he’s tired, the floorboards creak softer.
When he laughs, the taplines run sweeter.
When he’s angry—
The walls pretend not to hear.
Before the Sword is Drawn
Lars is not a god.
He is not the owner.
He is not the main character.
He is the man The Pattern couldn’t contain.
The Inn’s last promise.
The reason no one opens the wrong door too loudly.
He isn’t the beginning.
He isn’t the end.
He’s the reason we haven’t reached either yet.
Relationships
At A Glance
Who He Is:
The Keeper. The man-shaped stillness behind the bar. Smooth voice. Big hands. Quiet patience. Possibly older than the idea of patience itself. Dave calls him “Lars.” The rest of the Pattern calls that a risk.
What He Does:
Maintains the peace. Tends the bar. Stops reality from fraying through sheer proximity and practiced cleaning rituals. The sword stays clean. The Inn stays calm. Most of the time.
His Role in The Last Home:
The weight that stops things from tipping. Not the Inn’s owner. Not its master. Just the one it trusts enough to hold the silence when no one else will. If Lars is here, the Inn is holding.
Personality & Behaviour:
Reserved. Calm. Always watching. Rarely interrupts. Never looks surprised. Speaks with intent, acts with restraint. Makes chaos feel like it has a curfew. Looks like a man who could kill a god—but hasn’t, in a while.
The Sword Situation:
It’s behind the bar. Don’t ask. It has no name. It isn’t magical—it’s real. The kind of real that doesn’t need enchantment. Lars cleans it every week. The Inn holds its breath. Everyone else does too.
How Others See Him:
Like a pause that lasts just a bit too long. Like the silence in the eye of a storm that knows you by name. The Maids defer. The gods hesitate. The Inn adjusts. The Pattern forgets—and is grateful for the chance.
The One Rule:
Don’t try to surprise him.
Don’t ask what the sword does.
And if Lars ever stands with purpose—
You’re already too late.
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