Marie "Mouse" Merriwind

“I don’t steal anymore. I mean, I never really— it wasn’t like— I just— I don’t, okay?”

“...Anyway, do you want your purse back or not?”

There are legends, there are ghosts, and then there’s Marie Merriwind—who, by all accounts, should have been both. She should have been a whisper in the dark, a name muttered in hushed warnings between paranoid nobles, a shadow in the halls of history. She should have been untouchable, untraceable, a myth so well-forgotten that even reality itself might struggle to recall her.

Instead, she’s a barmaid.

She never meant to be. No one ever means to be a barmaid at The Last Home—not unless they have already exhausted every possible way of living a normal life. But Marie never wanted to be noticed, never wanted to be important, and certainly never wanted to be the kind of person whose presence changed the course of events. She just wanted to exist quietly, take what she needed, and leave before anyone even thought to look for her.

Unfortunately, the universe had other ideas.

Now, she folds napkins, cleans rooms, and lurks in the warm corners of the Inn where no one thinks to check. No one ever sees her serving drinks—she is not that kind of maid. She slips unseen through hallways, retrieves missing things before their owners even realise they’re gone, and, occasionally, listens in on conversations no one would ever have dared speak in front of Freya, Rika, or Lilith.

Marie should not be here. And yet, somehow, she is.

She has spent her whole life running, hiding, and avoiding attention. But now, for the first time, she has stopped. Or at least, she thinks she has. But if she were really still running, she wouldn’t be here, would she?

Would she?

The Presence She Cannot Escape

Marie does not stand out.

She is small, soft-footed, and polite—so utterly unremarkable that most people forget she was ever there at all. She moves as if apologising for taking up space, her steps light enough to make dust doubt its own existence. At a glance, one might assume she is just another halfling, just another slip of a girl lost in a world too big for her.

But then, they might notice the details.

Her golden eyes, round and keen, flicker with the sharp awareness of someone who is always watching, always thinking, always one step ahead of being noticed. Her ears—soft-furred, rounder than they should be—twitch at the sound of approaching footsteps. They are not the ears of an elf, nor a halfling, nor anything human.

She keeps them hidden beneath a bonnet or hood, the fabric pulled low to shield them from view. But no matter how carefully she tucks them away, they still move on their own, flicking at sudden noises, betraying emotions she would rather keep to herself.

And if you look too long?

If you happen to catch the shift of fabric, the faint movement beneath the long folds of her uniform?

You might swear you saw a tail flick, thin and furred, wrapping itself around her leg before disappearing entirely.

Of course, by then, she’s probably gone.

Because Marie Merriwind is never seen for long.

The Thief Who Should Have Vanished

Marie does not remember learning to steal.

She remembers avoiding people. She remembers staying quiet. She remembers being overlooked. But at some point—somewhere between slipping through the cracks and fading into the background—she realised that no one ever noticed when things went missing. And so, things simply... became hers.

It was never about wealth. She did not steal to have—she stole because she could. It was never a challenge, never a test of skill. She didn’t need to be good at talking her way out of situations, because she was never in them to begin with. Marie was the kind of thief who never needed an escape plan—because, by the time anyone thought to stop her, she was already long gone.

Until, one day, she stole something she should not have.

She still doesn’t know why she did it. Perhaps it was the challenge. Perhaps it was impulse. Perhaps, deep down, she wanted to prove to herself that she could take the untakeable.

What she knows for certain is this: she stole from the Queen of the Fey.

And the Fey do not lose things.

The Heist That Should Have Been Impossible

No one knows how Marie stole the Crown of the Queen of the Fey.

No one knows why she did it, either.

But what is known is this: the moment the Crown left the Queen’s possession, the Fey Courts collapsed into chaos. There was screaming. There was a great deal of dramatic posturing. Somewhere, a group of seers fell to their knees and wept as the weight of fate itself shifted. And somewhere else, a very small thief realised she had made an incredibly large mistake.

A Wild Hunt was called. Every Fey noble, every enchanted beast, every rule of reality bent itself toward catching the thief.

Marie ran.

She ran through realms, through hidden paths, through places no mortal should have ever seen. She ran until she reached the end of the road, the last hiding place, the final mistake.

And then, she found a door.

It should not have been there. It was not part of the world she had just left, nor part of the one she had been trying to reach. But it was there for her.

She did not hesitate. She stepped through.

And in that moment, she became the only person in history to ever break into The Last Home.

Or so she thought.

Lars knows better.

Because The Last Home does not make mistakes.

The People Who See Her Anyway

Marie does not form attachments.

At least, that’s what she tells herself.

She stays in the shadows, avoids attention, never lingers too long in a room. She does not seek out conversation, nor does she expect anyone to look for her. And yet… they do.

The Legendary Maids watch for her. Even the ones who don’t say it out loud. Freya pretends not to notice when Marie lurks in the library. Lilith, for all her coldness, always knows when Marie has disappeared for too long. Rika, infuriatingly, keeps trying to teach her how to suplex people.

And then, there’s Lars.

Lars never calls for her. He never has to. He just knows. Marie has never tested the limits of that knowledge, never tried to disappear completely. She does not want to know what he would do if she did.

She doesn’t understand why they care.

But she is still here.

And that, perhaps, is the real problem.

The One Rule That No One Should Break

Marie does not ask for much.

She does not demand space. She does not expect kindness. She has spent her life disappearing so thoroughly that she barely exists at all.

But there is one thing she cannot abide:

If she asks to be left alone, leave her alone.

If she disappears for a while, do not go looking for her. Do not try to hold her in place. Do not make her feel trapped.

Because if she believes, even for a moment, that she is not free to leave—

She will vanish.

And this time, you will not find her.

She Stopped Running. So Why Doesn’t It Feel Like It?

Marie gave the crown back. Or rather, Lars made her. The Fey Lords arrived at The Last Home—furious, humiliated, and prepared for war.

They did not get one.

Lars simply told Marie to return what she had stolen. And the Fey, for all their power, for all their bluster, were not foolish enough to argue with Lars. They took the Crown. They left.

But they did not forget.

And they do not forgive.

Marie knows they aren’t hunting her anymore. Not actively. But she still listens for the rustle of leaves where there is no wind. She still keeps a bag packed—just in case.

And sometimes, when she thinks no one is looking, she checks the mirror to make sure her reflection is still her own.

Just in case.