The Crimson Veil
“She is the sigh between stars. The pause before prophecy. The ache that gives velvet its texture.”
No one remembers inviting them. No one remembers approving them. And yet the Crimson Veil Society exists—fully-formed, theatrically dressed, and drenched in tragic longing. They are not recognised by any divine order, scholarly cabal, or local ordinance. But they are here. They are persistent. And they smell faintly of incense, ink, and heartbreak.
They are not a cult. They are not a club.
They are a problem with a signature colour palette.
The Warlock, the Pillow, and the Problem
It began, as these things always do, with a warlock.
Velasin Duskwhisper—half-demon, half-swoon, full disaster—arrived at the Inn mid-recitation, saw Carmella Ravenshroud descending a staircase in scandalous lace, and promptly declared her the source of his magic, muse of his torment, and patron of his soul.
She is not.
His actual patron is a chaos demon named Chortleghast, who is enjoying the situation immensely.
Within a week, Velasin had formed the Society. Within two, they had a ballroom. And by the third, they were chanting her monologues in harmony while wearing lace gloves and sighing at chandeliers.
The Crimson Ballroom
Tucked somewhere in the Guest Wings—and possibly in another emotional dimension—the Crimson Ballroom was there before the Society existed. It is always candlelit. Always misty. The mirrors fog with memory. The shadows cling a little longer.
The piano plays itself. The curtains sigh. The floorboards are dramatic.
No one has seen Carmella inside.
There is always a faint trace of her perfume.
They consider it sacred. The Inn, for its part, refuses to comment.
Worship Through Drama
The Society does not pray.
They perform.
They monologue.
They compose odes, burn letters, and duel with compliments.
They each carry a “Book of Mourning”—a personalised anthology of tragic poetry, sketches, unfinished love confessions, and Carmella-centric devotional nonsense. Members are known to faint after particularly well-delivered sighs.
At the centre of the Ballroom sits their prize: the Dakimakura of Destiny.
It is not a replica. It is a duplicate.
One of the originals. Somehow. No one knows how they got it.
Carmella insists she did not give it to them.
The Society claims it was a sign.
Lars refuses to engage.
The pillow is posed differently than Carmella’s personal version—collar slightly askew, expression just a touch more vulnerable. It always smells of rose and moonlight. Sometimes, it seems to wink.
They keep it on an altar. They pour it wine.
They’ve written hymns.
The Taproom Table No One Talks About
In the furthest, most shadowed corner of the Taproom sits the Crimson Table.
It has five chairs. Four are always filled.
The fifth is reserved for Her.
Carmella has never sat there.
They claim the number is symbolic.
“There must always be a space left… for longing.”
Lars insists it’s just a regular table.
They added a second wine glass anyway.
No one else sits there. The air is too heavy. The vibe is too... tenor. The shadows do not just linger—they listen.
Lars makes Carmella serve them as punishment.
She refers to it as a diplomatic incident.
Sylvie volunteers. Often. For reasons.
The Devoted Few
Velasin Duskwhisper – A famous warlock back home, and a tragic romantic mess at the Inn. His magic is real. His pact is not with Carmella. He refuses to believe either of these things. Dresses like a dirge and cries like it’s a skill check.
Mirelle of the Pale Garden – A Moonlit dark elf enchantress of undeniable power and even more undeniable curves. Fully aware of Von’s devotion. Uses it for laundry, wine runs, and emotional inflation. Would conquer nations if she wasn’t so good at delegation.
Thornwick – A cursed satyr playwright who bleeds in metaphor. Writes operas no one asked for and flutes at inappropriate moments. Claims to be “narratively entangled” with Carmella. No one corrects him. It’s not worth the sequel.
Alaric Von Sorrowglen – Just a human. A very, very human teenager who wandered in from a world of lockers and math class. Has no powers. Has all the angst. Desperately in love with Mirelle. Terrified someone will realise he’s a fraud. No one has.
Belief as Performance
At any other Inn, they’d be mocked into obscurity. But here?
Belief reshapes reality.
And somewhere, the Inn sighed—and gave them a ballroom.
They are a disaster. A poetic problem. A slow-moving tragedy in five acts.
And for Carmella Ravenshroud?
They are a shrine she refuses to acknowledge.
For the Morbidly Curious: The Tragedy of Earth
There are many realms in the Infinite Elsewhere.
Some are made of fire. Some are made of song.
And some, tragically, are made of fluorescent lighting and homework.
The Crimson Veil Society speaks—rarely, and only with shuddering reverence—of one such world: a magicless, beige-tiled plane known only as Earth.
It is said that Alaric Von Sorrowglen hails from this place. A realm where dragons are fictional, elves wear plastic ears, and arcane tomes are sold in the “Young Adult” section. A world so painfully mundane it created in him a yearning so powerful, it punched a hole in narrative structure and led him here.
They do not speak of it openly.
They weep of it.
They write poems with titles like “Why Must the Lockers Echo So?” and “There Are No Faerie Rings in Geography Class.”
No one knows how Von got to the Inn.
No one knows if he can return.
He insists he is the chosen scion of heartbreak.
Velasin calls Earth “a realm of tragic potential.”
Mirelle calls it “proof that desperation has mass.”
Thornwick refuses to believe in it. He says it's too sad.
The Fifth Chair believes.
(Or so Alaric claims.)
At A Glance
Who They Are:
Emotionally-charged devotees of Carmella Ravenshroud, mostly made up of unfinished narrative entities, theatre-bard failures, dream-touched romantics, and one tragically deluded half-demon warlock.
What They Do:
Monologue. Longingly. They maintain a sacred ballroom, write dramatic poetry, duel with compliments, and mistake Carmella’s indifference for divine mystery. Occasionally weep into fabrics.
Their Role in The Last Home:
They’re an atmospheric hazard. Furniture trembles when they approach. Mirrors judge them. They bring ambience, incense, and a frankly terrifying level of commitment to their own nonsense.
Personality & Dynamic:
Less a group, more a shared hallucination wrapped in lace. Their energy is one part tragic opera, one part misdirected cult, and three parts emotionally repressed theatre club.
The Uniform:
Crimson and black velvet, lace gloves, half-masks, parasols, and unnecessary belts. Every outfit is one fainting couch away from a climax.
Annual Traditions:
The Day of Falling Petals—when they read their worst poetry aloud to the Dakimakura and cry over a wine they can’t afford.
How Others See Them:
Fascinating. Exhausting. Slightly cursed.
Most people avoid eye contact. Carmella avoids all contact. The ballroom accepts them anyway.
Lars’ Opinion on Them:
“If they ever try to summon her actual patron, I’m kicking them into the sun.”
“Beneath Crimson Veil, I Bleed”
As performed by Velasin Duskwhisper during the 3rd Annual Day of Falling Petals
"She looked at me once.
Or did she?
The wine had not yet soured. The moon had not yet judged me.
And yet—my soul fractured.
I remember her silence.
Not the sound, no, never the sound—
But the absence of all other things.
My heartbeat? Stilled.
My breath? Betrayed me.
My parasol? Forgotten in the foyer of despair.
What am I, if not her shadow’s echo?
What is love, if not devotion ignored, mislabelled, and politely returned to sender with no forwarding address?
I am not a man.
I am a metaphor.
…And she won’t even let me dust her bookshelf.”
(throws handful of rose petals into the air and exits weeping)
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