The Staff
“If you have a problem, bring it to the staff. If you have a complaint… bring it only once.”
There is a difference between staff and personnel. Between those who serve and those who keep the walls from unravelling into starlight. The Staff of The Last Home are not employees. We are constants. Anchors. Necessary irritants in a place that otherwise refuses to be held in place.
We are not here to make your stay comfortable. We are here to ensure it is possible.
You may think of us as caretakers. Watchers. Enforcers, when required.
The inn moves. We do not.
Who We Are
Lars: Our Keeper. He does not speak unless he must. When he does, the inn listens. So should you. There is a sword behind the bar. If you have seen it, consider yourself warned. If he is cleaning it, leave the room. If he stands, it is too late.
Tess: The Bard. Voice of the Taproom, heart of our stories, and chronicler of our most avoidable disasters. She sings with honesty, fights with words, and has a particular knack for making you laugh moments before making you weep. This is not a threat. It is simply her way.
The Legendary Maids: Six of them. You’ll know them by the sound of panic, broken furniture, or giddy, inexplicable devotion. Do not mistake their attire for weakness. They are the most dangerous creatures in this building, and I include the architecture. They enforce the rules. Often violently. Occasionally beautifully. Always effectively.
Mama Jori: She is the Kitchen. That is not metaphor. She is what feeds you. You may not choose your meal. She chooses you. She has no need of knives to cut deep. A glance will suffice. If she seats you at her table, be grateful. And eat everything.
Seraphis Nightvale: The Librarian. One does not peruse her shelves. One is allowed to. Or not. Those who question her methods tend not to return. The Library itself listens to her. The rest of us know better than to interfere. Or speak above a whisper.
Myself: I am Lucian Graves. I open the doors that should remain closed, and close the ones that should never have opened. I do not knock. I do not raise my voice. I ensure what needs to be done is—before the Inn notices it hasn’t been. That is all you need to know.
What We Do
We uphold the Rules of the Inn. We serve its will, whether spoken or implied. We maintain its structure—physical, social, metaphysical.
We do not explain ourselves.
We pour the drinks. We prepare the meals. We catalogue the impossible. We remove those who forget themselves. Sometimes gently. Sometimes not.
We are not interchangeable. We are not replaceable.
If one of us vanishes, the Inn notices. And responds.
It is not something you want to witness.
What That Means for You
We will help you. Unless you make us regret it.
You may ask questions. You may even receive answers, if such things are warranted. But do not confuse presence for permission. We are not here for your amusement. We are not part of your story. If anything, you are part of ours—for as long as the Inn allows.
Most patrons come and go. Some stay.
None stay long unless we let them.
Now. If you require something, ask. If you require something unreasonable, ask quietly. If you wish to challenge the rules, I suggest you begin by choosing which floor you’d like to be embedded in.
It’s happened before.
Only once.
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