Things I Probably Shouldn't Know
“If you’re reading this, I hope you’re not in it. And if you are—sorry. Probably.”
I didn’t write this to keep track of anything. That would imply planning. Or intent. Or some sort of long-term involvement, which, for the record, I am absolutely not interested in.
I just… noticed things. And I didn’t forget them. Which is basically an accident.
This isn’t a real ledger. Don’t treat it like a list. It’s just… things. Strange things. Dangerous things. Things I overheard, or saw, or had whispered to me by cutlery that probably shouldn’t have been whispering.
Anyway. If you’re reading this—you didn’t find it in my room.
They’re Not Dangerous (Except That They Are)
Lars hasn’t moved in three days. Someone dropped a plate behind the bar and it didn’t make a sound. That’s not normal, right? I mean, maybe it is for him. But the way the room waited after? That wasn’t just silence. That was hopeful silence.
Freya told a god to leave last week. She didn’t raise her voice. She just wiped her hands on her apron and stared at him until he understood. I didn’t see what he did to upset her, but I did hear him apologise to the floorboards before he left.
Lilith’s roses have started whispering. I know I’m not supposed to hear them. But I do. They speak in dreams. One of them said my name. I haven’t gone near the garden since.
Rika tried to teach me how to suplex something yesterday. It was… a chair. The chair deserved it, apparently. She said she’d teach me again tomorrow. I may have to change jobs.
Sylvie said something about my future. She smiled too much while she said it. Then she forgot she’d said it. Or pretended to. Or convinced me that I’d imagined the whole thing.
Tess sang something under her breath and the stew pot cried. Might not be related. Probably is.
Seraphis hasn’t spoken in two days. The Library rearranged itself five times. Lucian dusted something. I didn’t know dust was allowed in there.
Lucian brought me tea once. I didn’t ask for it. It was just there. Hot. Perfect. I still haven’t touched it.
Dave watched a god trip and didn’t blink. The god apologised. To him.
Doors That Shouldn’t Be There (But Are)
There’s a hallway behind Room Nine that didn’t used to be there. It has three doors. One leads to a ballroom, one loops back to the hallway, and the last one says “Not Yet.” I opened it once. I heard ticking. Haven’t tried again.
The lilies in the orchard bloomed black this week. No one planted them. One of them whispered my name. I don’t want to know how it knew.
A mirror in the third bathroom wrote “Run” in the steam while I was brushing my teeth. That seems… unnecessary.
A coin appeared on my pillow. One side shows a crown. The other shows me. I think. I haven’t flipped it again.
There’s a girl in the garden who only speaks in past tense. Even about next week. Her name changes depending on who asks.
The trapdoor under Table Seven opened again. No one touched it. The table slid out of the way like it was used to it. One of the chairs growled.
The Tick-Tick-Click of Things You Can’t Fix
Something under the floorboards is ticking. It clicks in threes now. Freya told it to stop. It listened. For an hour. Then it started again.
The gods have gone quiet. That's not better. One of them left a tip. It melted the table. Lars nodded, and the table fixed itself. I’m not serving that section anymore.
The oven in the Kitchen wrote a poem in soot yesterday. It made someone cry. Mama Jori said, “That’s how you know it’s working.”
I’m Not Saying Any of This Is Important
I didn’t write this down for anyone else. But if you found it—maybe you need it more than I do.
Or maybe the Inn wants you to know.
Either way… don’t quote me.
At A Glance
What This Is:
A half-accidental, mostly-incomplete, suspiciously accurate notebook compiled by Marie “Mouse” Merriwind. It isn’t a timeline. It’s not a lore bible. It’s a glimpse—a threadbare patchwork of moments, murmurs, and mild disasters that paints a picture of life inside The Last Home.
Why It Matters:
The Inn doesn’t give briefings. It gives stories. This article serves as a scene-setter for players, a tone guide for the kind of chaos to expect, and a source of inspiration for DMs when building encounters, NPC moments, or strange sidequests.
How It Can Be Used:
- As flavour text to open a session or establish mood
- A world reference for the tone, stakes, and absurdity of the Inn
- A rumour mill to seed quests, conflicts, or NPC reactions
- A player tool for getting immersed in the setting's weird logic and layered humour
Tone & Usefulness:
Equal parts worldbuilding, mischief, and quiet horror, this is what the Inn feels like when no one’s explaining it properly—and when someone probably should be.
Trustworthiness:
Dubious. But deeply useful. Like most things at The Last Home.
Advice From A Maid
"If you're looking for answers, you're in the wrong corridor.
If you're looking for Marie—you might be in the right one, but she’s already gone. Probably through a wall. Or a memory. Or yesterday."
— Sylvie Starfall
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