A Welcome of Dubious Sincerity

“This is The Last Home. It moves when it wants, keeps who it chooses, and doesn’t explain itself. You’ll be safe here—if you follow the rules.”

— Freya, Head of the Maids (and not your babysitter)

So. You Made It Through the Door.

Maybe you were looking for a second chance.
Maybe you were running from the fifth.
Maybe you tripped over a collapsing narrative and fell sideways into a teacup.

Doesn’t matter. You’re here now.
Which means something. Probably.

No, I don’t know what. I’m not the Inn.
I just mop the floors, stab the things that need stabbing, and occasionally drag people out of the fire because no one else bothered to read the rules.

This is your welcome.
Don’t expect it to be warm.

What This Actually Is

This isn’t a game setting. It’s not a “tavern between realms.” It’s not a D&D hub.
The Inn doesn’t care what system you use. Frankly, neither do I.

This book is a primer. A survival guide.
A polite warning issued in long-form sarcasm.

Inside, you’ll find:

• The Staff (some of us smile. It’s not a good sign),
• The Rooms (don’t open anything that wasn’t open yesterday),
• The Rules (break them and I will know),
• And a bit about Patrons—people the Inn holds onto, for reasons it rarely explains.

If you’re reading this, congratulations.
The Inn probably thinks you’re one of them.

Don’t ask why. Don’t get smug. Don’t assume you’re safe.
You’re not.

What The Last Home Is

The Inn isn’t a place. It’s a narrative stabiliser.
A resonance sink. A reality anchor. A refuge for people the Pattern wasn’t quite finished with.

It appears when the story frays.
When the arc slips sideways.
When the threads start humming and someone decides this shouldn’t be how it ends.

It looks like an inn because people need it to.
Most minds can’t survive what it really is.
Some of us work here anyway.

It doesn’t follow space. Or time.
It follows resonance.

And if it’s letting you stay? That means your story isn’t done yet.

Who This Is For

You’re not a guest. You’re not passing through. You’re part of it now.

This book is for:

• Players, storytellers, wanderers, Threadwalkers,
• People with unresolved plotlines and too much emotional baggage,
• Those who don’t know what they are but keep being told they’re important,
• Survivors of genre collapse, campaign abandonment, and divine negligence.

You like found family, probably. You cry about characters who never got to say goodbye.
You talk to gods like they owe you money.
You believe that meaning is something you earn.

The Last Home is for people like you.
Not that I care. Or anything.

Last Thing (And You’d Better Listen)

The rest of the Primer is ahead. The Rooms. The Staff. The Garden.
The Maids. (Yes, obviously, you’ll hear about us. Usually from me.)
You’ll learn about Lars. And Dave. (If you see Dave, do not engage. Just—don’t.)

But before you wander off and get eaten by the upholstery, here’s your final warning:

• Don’t lie to the Library.
• Don’t touch the sword behind the bar.
• And for the love of all surviving timelines—don’t flirt with the Maids.
    That includes me. Obviously. Not that you would. Or that I care. Shut up.

They are divine-level resonance cores wrapped in frills, trauma, and poorly-restrained magic.
If they like you, you’re already doomed.
If they don’t, you’re going to wish they did.

If one of them blushes?
That’s not romantic tension.
That’s narrative detonation.

So unless you want to become a tragic subplot with excellent lighting,
keep it respectful.

Don’t make me repeat myself.

You’re here because the Inn let you in.
Try not to make it regret that.