Whiskers

“Treats are not required. Merely advised. The bear is not to be touched. You have been warned.”

— Seraphis Nightvale, Librarian of the Last Home

When Mama Jori entered the kitchen of The Last Home for the first time, she did not introduce herself. She simply walked in, found the nearest knife, and began chopping onions. The kitchen accepted her. The staff did not interfere. And the Pattern, in its quiet way, altered to fit her presence.

Whiskers arrived with her.

He was already curled on a cushion that hadn’t existed the day before—nestled by the hearth, surrounded by scorched plush toys and territorial stillness. No one asked where he came from. No one moved him. And when the first rat from the Cellar tried the stairs that night, it did not return. That, more than anything else, defined his role.

Mama Jori never refers to him aloud. But she has never cooked without him present. That is, in this Inn, as official as it gets.

The Cushion, the Bear, and the Place That Belongs

Whiskers spends most of his time on what is now universally acknowledged as his cushion: a large, purple, overly plush monstrosity shaped perfectly to his bulk. The hearth bends its warmth toward him. The kitchen staff walk wide circles around him. He does not move unless provoked by a scent, a sound, or a change in atmosphere only he notices.

Among the ruined plush toys scattered around him, one object is always pristine: a small teddy bear, stitched neatly with black button eyes and a faded ribbon. No one touches it. No one discusses it. But it is always there—tucked against his flank at night, resting against his front claws during storms. Attempts to “tidy” it have been met with cold stares, kitchen malfunctions, and—once—a spoon that rusted from the inside out.

Whatever the bear means, it is not symbolic. It is structural.

The Mascot No One Dared Appoint

To the casual guest, Whiskers is a curiosity—a chunky, velvet-scaled lizard curled in the warmest spot in the building. Children adore him. Tourists feed him. Bardic interns sketch him in the margins of their drink orders. The staff, by contrast, treat him as a hazard zone with eyes.

He accepts bribes inconsistently. He permits affection rarely. He climbs into laps only when the victim cannot escape politely. When this happens, conversation ceases until he relocates himself, or the individual accepts their new position in life.

Whiskers does not officially belong to the Inn. But he has been painted—poorly—on the Ratter’s Reserve cask. He has several knitted scarves he does not wear. He is the subject of at least one haiku competition (unpublished) and was once named “Employee of the Month” by mistake. The sign was not removed.

The Quiet Enforcer of the Kitchen

Whiskers is not staff. He has no listed duties. Yet the kitchen runs more smoothly in his presence. The knives stay sharp. The soup does not split. Patrons behave. He has never been seen interfering. And yet, should a hand hover too long near an unserved tray, or a newcomer question the pricing aloud, Whiskers shifts his weight. That is usually enough.

When problems escalate—rare, but inevitable—he does not roar or chase. He simply appears. Behind. Beneath. Between. His silence is often the only warning, and also the only punishment required.

No one tells him what to do. But when Mama Jori sighs sharply or a ladle goes missing, he is already moving.

The Cellar’s First and Final Line

The Cellar of the Last Home is not haunted. It is not cursed. But it is inhabited. The rats that live below are larger than they should be, sharper than they need to be, and far too clever to be dismissed as vermin. Most of the time, they remain below. Because Whiskers is above.

On rare occasions, one forgets the rules and makes it to the stairs. It never gets farther. Whiskers ensures that. His approach is not loud. It is not violent. It is merely decisive. When he returns to his cushion, he brings with him the scent of ash and old grain, and the sense that something has been corrected.

If a rat escapes entirely—a rarer, more troubling outcome—Whiskers does not rest until it is resolved. The staff know the signs: the hearth dims. The cellar door creaks in odd rhythm. The plush toys turn to face the stairs. And Whiskers opens one eye.

What He Is, and What He Isn’t

Whiskers is not ancient. But he is not young. He does not speak. He does not blink often. He does not breathe visibly unless the temperature drops.

He is a drake in physical form—scaly, thick-limbed, short-necked, and heavier than he should be. He has no wings. He does not breathe fire. He does not need to.

He is not staff, not family, not god. But he performs the functions of all three when necessary. He is not magical in the traditional sense, and yet the arcane patterns around him show mild interference whenever he’s disturbed.

Attempts to classify him have failed. Attempts to relocate him have ceased. And attempts to ignore him have consequences.

Final Notes

He arrived with Mama Jori. That should have been warning enough.

He does not obey rules. He is one. The kind that gets filed without documentation and cannot be amended without collateral.

If he opens both eyes, the cellar door is already closed.
If he leaves the cushion, the Inn is already in danger.
If the teddy bear goes missing, no one will speak of what follows.

Do not feed him unless he asks.
Do not speak to him unless he stays.
And if he climbs onto the bench beside you—just eat your food.

He’s decided you needed the company.
And that’s not a decision you get to disagree with.