Mama Jori
The kitchen doesn’t close until she says so. And she never says so.
There are three great and unbreakable laws in The Last Home.
The first is that no one leaves until the Inn decides.
The second is that Lars and the Legendary Maids enforce absolute order.
And the third—unspoken, but obeyed with cult-like devotion—is this:
You do not leave Mama Jori’s table hungry.
This is not a law. It is not even a rule. It is simply how things are.
As immutable as gravity. As inescapable as guilt.
And yes, she will know if you try to sneak out with just a snack.
The Head Cook of The Last Home (And You’re Going to Finish That)
Mama Jori runs the kitchen with the kind of authority usually reserved for war generals and very tired grandmothers. She decides what’s being served, when it’s ready, and exactly how much of it you need—even if you think you know better. (You don’t.)
She does not raise her voice.
She does not explain herself.
She simply expects compliance—and for reasons no one can quite articulate, compliance is given.
You may pay for your meal.
You may thank her politely.
But if she decides you haven’t really eaten? You’ll sit back down.
The Pink-Hued Wall of Inevitability
Mama Jori is Gan’Tal—though she stands out even among them, both for her rose-tinted hide and her tendency to radiate emotional weather like a stormfront with a ladle. She is a reverse empath:
She does not feel what others feel.
Others feel what she feels.
This is usually maternal warmth, a quiet certainty, and an unshakable sense that someone, finally, is taking care of things.
Usually.
Her deep-set, knowing eyes have stared down gods and guilted demons into eating their vegetables. She does not threaten. She simply disapproves.
And if you’ve never felt a physical manifestation of disappointment before, it is… educational.
The Sacred Table (You’ll Know It When You See It)
Some meals are bought. Some meals are given.
But there is one table—unlisted, unlabelled, and never quite in the same place twice—that serves something else entirely.
No one sits at it unless invited.
No one wants to sit there unless they need to.
To eat at Mama Jori’s hearthside table is to be acknowledged. Not as a patron, but as someone who is starving in ways food can’t fix. She won’t ask. She doesn’t need to.
There is no menu.
There is no charge.
There is only what she places before you.
And if you cry into your soup? That’s between you and the broth.
The Tear That Unwrote a Man
Mama Jori has only cried once.
Just once.
A single tear rolled down her cheek, caught the kitchen light, and vanished into the fold of her apron. No storm followed. No reprimand came. She simply sighed, quietly, and kept stirring.
The person responsible?
Gone.
Not banished. Not scolded. Not even remembered.
Lars cannot recall their name.
Tess forgets they were ever hired.
Even the Librarian—Seraphis Nightvale, Librarian of the Last Home herself—has no notes.
It was not erasure. It was grief.
And the Pattern knew to take the hint.
At A Glance
Who She Is
Head Cook of The Last Home. Keeper of the kitchen. Feeds the hungry. Judges the foolish. Smiles rarely.
Presence
Gan’Tal. Pink-skinned. Reverse empath. Others feel what she feels. Usually warmth. Occasionally regret. Once—grief.
Voice
Quiet. Measured. Final. A look is enough. A sigh ends arguments. She does not ask. She decides.
How They See Her
Lars listens. Tess doesn’t push. The Maids obey. The Conspiracy Club leaves her name off the board. Guests eat. Whiskers watches.
The Table
Not listed. Not offered. Not refused. If you’re seated there, you needed it. The meal will be exactly what you didn’t know to ask for.
The Tear
It happened once. One tear. One person gone. No name. No memory. No story. The Inn noticed.
Whiskers
Small. Round. Patient. Not a pet. If he stares, leave. If he climbs onto the bench beside you, it’s already too late.
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