Those Who Stay

“If you wake up here more than twice, you’re probably a Patron. If you wake up in someone else’s bed, you’re definitely a Patron. Congratulations.”

— Me. Just now. Put that on the wall.

There’s a rhythm to this place. A pulse. The doors open, the soup simmers, and the chairs scrape back for the same stories told by different fools.

But some of those fools stay.
Some come back.
Some are kept.

We call them Patrons.

It’s not a title you sign up for. It’s one the Inn quietly gives you—like a room key that keeps appearing in your pocket. One day, you’re just another poor soul with a drink and a secret. The next, your name’s in the books, your room restocks itself, and Lucian nods at you like you’ve always been here.

You haven’t. But the Inn disagrees. And that’s the end of that.

What Is a Patron?

A Patron is anyone the Inn decides not to let go.

They might live here, wander off and return, or simply exist in a state of semi-permanent denial in Room 14. (He’s fine. Just don’t knock too loudly.)

Some have been here for weeks. Some for decades. One swears he arrived before the concept of years was finalised. We call him Phil. Phil likes chess and denies everything.

Patrons aren’t staff. They don’t work here. But they’re not guests either—not anymore. They’re fixtures, in the same way that barstools and emotionally avoidant adventurers are fixtures.

They stay because they can’t go back. Or won’t. Or don’t know how.
And sometimes… they’re the ones we need most.

Where You Come In

If you’ve found this article—if you’ve been handed the book, or guided to the Library, or woken up for the third time in a bed you never paid for—you’re probably a Patron now.

That means a few things:

• You have a room. You don’t always choose it. It chooses you.
• You’ll be expected to help. Or hinder. Or accidentally summon something. We’re flexible.
• You matter now. Even if you don’t know why yet.

This isn’t just your home base. It’s your hinge point. The place you’ll come back to when the world gets too loud, or too broken, or too final.

You don’t have to stay forever. But if you leave… the door may not be where you left it. And someone else may already have taken your room.

Hope you weren’t too attached to the bookshelf.

Final Thoughts (And A Top-Up, Please)

Being a Patron means the Inn sees something in you. That doesn’t mean you’re chosen. It doesn’t mean you’re safe. It just means… you’re still here.

That counts for something.

We get all sorts. Saints, scoundrels, soft-spoken gods. Lost souls. Found ones. People who know how their story ends, and people who are still flipping pages hoping for a better one.

Stick around long enough, and you’ll find out who you are.

Or at the very least, you’ll learn how to dodge a suplex, win an argument with a lich (don’t), and drink responsibly around sentient furniture.

Oh—before I forget.

Here.
Take this.

It’s a Hearthstone. Smooth little thing, fits right in your palm. Looks like nothing special, I know—but hold it tight and think of the Inn, and you’ll find your way back. Assuming the Inn wants you to, of course. (It usually does. Usually.)

Don’t lose it. Don’t sell it. Don’t try to cook it—yes, that’s happened.

Just keep it close.

You never know when you’ll need a way home.

Welcome to The Last Home.

You’re one of us now.