Sylvelle "Sylvie" Starfall
"Careful, darling. You’re about to ruin the mystery."
There are many strange things about The Last Home—doors that open to places that shouldn’t exist, patrons who swear they’ve never been here before while their unpaid tabs say otherwise, and Dave, who remains the single most inexplicable entity in existence. And then, there is Sylvie Starfall, a creature of silk and secrets, who does not belong but refuses to acknowledge the fact.
No one hired her. No one invited her. Lars did not approve her. And yet, she is here—smirking, setting something up, waiting to see what happens.
The taproom staff insists she has always been here, though if pressed, they can’t quite recall when she arrived. The Maids, who enforce the unspoken law that no one enters the Staff Quarters uninvited, have somehow allowed Sylvie to remain a permanent fixture—despite the fact that she not only has a room there but frequently has guests. Lars has tried, exactly once, to remove her. The next morning, she was still there, sipping tea, unbothered, amused.
Lars does not try anymore.
Because the only thing Lars knows for certain about Sylvie Starfall is that The Last Home allowed her inside. And The Last Home does not make mistakes.
The Smile That Cannot Be Caught
Sylvie is a puzzle wrapped in silk, a smirk in motion.
Long, flowing silver hair cascades in perfect waves, shifting effortlessly between casual elegance and artful precision depending on what best suits the moment. Her large violet eyes, ever half-lidded with some private amusement, catch the light in ways that make even the most rational minds briefly consider poetry.
Her voice? Smooth, musical, dangerous. The kind that lingers in the air long after she has finished speaking, that turns innocent words into suggestive riddles without ever trying.
She does not walk; she drifts, weaves, appears. Never hurried, never uncertain, always exactly where she intends to be.
There was once a noble, half-drunk and dazzled, who leaned just a little too close, murmuring some well-worn compliment about her beauty. Sylvie had not even replied before he suddenly stopped mid-sentence, eyes flickering with something—confusion? Uncertainty? A realisation too late to take back.
He excused himself shortly after.
Sylvie just watched him go, smiling into her drink.
She wears the maid uniform as if it were woven from moonlight and mischief, the crisp black-and-white ensemble fitting her too well. The lace, the perfectly tied bow, the effortless way she moves in it—it is not a disguise. It is devotion.
"Why would I wear anything else?" she once laughed. "It’s simply perfect, don’t you think?"
No one questioned her after that.
Her hands, when she moves them, are too sure. Not delicate, not calloused, but stronger than they should be, steadier than expected. A contradiction, like the rest of her—graceful fingers that play at elegance but have never once trembled.
A Performer, A Seducer, A Nightmare in Lace
Sylvie plays at innocence, but she is never actually innocent. Every scandal, every whispered misunderstanding, every dramatic revelation that seems to unfold by chance? She set the stage.
She is not a bard, because bards exist to entertain others. Sylvie performs for herself. She does not seek applause. She does not crave attention. She simply enjoys watching people walk willingly into the stories she has arranged for them.
She is the kind of person who will slip a letter into the wrong pocket, just to see what happens. The kind who will compliment Freya’s hair just to watch her fume about it. The kind who will whisper something utterly devastating in Carmella’s ear just to see how many poetic monologues will result.
And she does it all with a smile.
Because for Sylvie, watching is half the fun.
A Past Written in Vanishing Ink
No one knows where Sylvie came from. Or, more accurately, everyone thinks they know.
A noble, fallen from grace, who fled the expectations of a throne she never wanted?
A Fey courtesan, bound to some ancient bargain, her presence in the Inn a temporary respite from debts unpaid?
A trickster deity, lingering in mortal skin for no other reason than curiosity and boredom?
Ask Sylvie directly, and you will receive a different answer every time.
"Oh, darling, the truth is so terribly dull, don’t you think? Much better to keep a little mystery in the air."
She never denies anything. She simply makes it impossible to confirm.
And yet, there are contradictions.
Freya, who trusts her fists more than her instincts, has been caught staring at Sylvie, brow furrowed in deep suspicion, as if trying to puzzle something out. Once, after a long night and too many drinks, she scowled across the table and muttered, “Something about you just—”
But Sylvie had tilted her head, smiled, and raised a glass. “Freya, dearest, is that a blush? How unexpected.”
Freya never finished the sentence. She only drank harder.
The One Who Shouldn’t Be Here, But Is
The Legendary Maids uphold the rules of The Last Home. They ensure that only those who belong remain.
And yet, Sylvie remains.
She has never been seen opening a locked door—yet has never once been locked out.
She has never been caught arriving or leaving a room—yet is always exactly where she needs to be.
And once—just once—Freya grabbed her wrist, caught off guard in an argument. For a split second, her grip faltered, her brow creased, her lips parted—as if something wasn’t quite right.
Sylvie just smiled and gently pried her hand away.
Final Thoughts – The Illusion That Laughs Back
Sylvie is not a warrior.
Sylvie is not a bard.
Sylvie is not a mystery to be solved.
She simply is.
And if you think you’ve figured her out—
Then, darling, you weren’t paying attention.
Lars, when asked—when pressed—about Sylvie, simply rubs his face and exhales, the deep, exhausted sigh of a man who has already lost too much sleep over this.
"I don’t want to talk about it. Ever."
But Freya? Freya, who has been watching Sylvie too closely, for too long, with the kind of stare that suggests she is trying to solve a puzzle that refuses to fit together—
One night, after too many drinks, after one too many smug smiles from Sylvie, Freya finally loses patience.
"I swear to the gods, you are—"
But Sylvie cuts her off, tilting her head, violet eyes gleaming in the candlelight, lips curving into a slow, knowing grin.
"Careful, darling. You’re about to ruin the mystery."
Freya freezes.
Marie, watching quietly, tugs on Freya’s sleeve.
She stands on tiptoe, cups a hand to Freya’s ear, and whispers something too soft for anyone else to hear.
Freya goes still.
But Sylvie? She’s already halfway across the room, watching with quiet amusement.
At A Glance
Who She Is:
A smile that lingers too long, a whisper that never quite fades, Sylvie Starfall is The Last Home’s greatest enigma and its most exquisite frustration. She is a performer without a stage, a seducer without an intent, and a puzzle without a solution. And she would not have it any other way.
What She Does:
Sylvie does not enforce the rules—she bends them until they snap into something more entertaining. She does not break into places—she simply exists where she was not a moment ago. She does not lie—she just speaks in a way that ensures you will do it for her.
Her Role in The Last Home:
She was not invited—she was simply accepted. Lars lets her stay because The Inn willed it, the Maids tolerate her because throwing her out does not work, and the patrons do not know whether to be charmed or terrified. She is not staff, not a guest, and certainly not harmless.
Personality & Behaviour:
Sylvie does not manipulate—she merely sets the stage. If you find yourself flustered, confused, or questioning every assumption you’ve made about yourself, that is hardly her fault. She is never cruel, never forceful, never anything but precisely what you expect her to be—until, of course, you realise you were wrong.
The Illusion Woven in Lace:
Long silver hair, violet eyes full of amusement, a knowing smirk that makes even the most confident hesitate—Sylvie is beauty, grace, and something else entirely. Her uniform fits too perfectly, her steps never falter, and her hands, though elegant, are far too sure. She is whatever you think she is.
The One Rule:
If you believe you have figured Sylvie Starfall out, she has already won.
The Mystery That No One Solves:
No one remembers when she arrived, where she came from, or why she is here. The Maids have given up questioning. The patrons accept it as fact. Lars refuses to discuss it. The Inn does not seem concerned. And Sylvie? Sylvie just smiles.
How Others See Her:
A delightful menace, a walking disaster, a legend in the making—or a scandal waiting to happen. She is either someone’s greatest fascination or greatest regret, depending on how much they let her play with them.
Lars’ Opinion on Her:
She is not his problem. But she is also never leaving. He does not trust her, but he also does not try to stop her. His only rule:
"I don’t care what she’s up to. Just keep her away from the liquor."
It is, regrettably, a rule that never seems to hold.
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