If you venture far enough to the west, the world comes to an end...

On the edge of an endless fog, a lonely bartender welcomes a weary traveler. They've each got a tale to tell the other, but who's really telling the truth?

Written by: Jonathan Cohen

Narrated by: Joe Cruz

A Faustian Nonsense production.

To read the full transcript of this episode, go to https://thelavendertavern.captivate.fm/episode/the-tavern-at-the-edge-of-the-world

Content warnings: homophobia, sexism

Transcript

[Intro: This story is called “The Tavern at the End of the World.” It does not take place in the Lavender Tavern…but somewhere where men and women come together to eat, drink and tell each other stories. You might call it a tavern…or you might call it home.]

If you venture far enough to the west, the world comes to an end.

Leave your town, forsake your village, abandon your hamlet and wander the land, always facing the sunset. After the last few settlements have faded, and the cobblestone road has become a dirt path, and then a mere hint of wheel tracks in the grass, you will come to a single, low-slung building at the end of the world.

It has no name; it needs no name. There is a sign outside that reads “LAST CHANCE FOR SUPPLIES.” The lettering of the sign has faded. Worse, the lettering has been eaten away, like everything else, by the fog.

For beyond the building, there is a line of rolling fog that never moves eastward and never recedes westward. It stands guard in a long straight line that stretches past where the eye can see. There is no further going west unless you step into the cold, unknowable fog.

And if you are standing at the Edge of that fog, trying to peer into what lies beyond, and thinking about those who have already come this way, it may occur to you to pause, for just a moment. To turn and look at the low stone building with the thatched roof and smoke coming from a chimney at one end. To walk away from the mist – even five feet away from it is a relief – and put a hand on the stone next to the building’s door, where a bronze plate has also been worn down by time and the fog.

The bronze plate, if you pass your fingers over it, will tell you that the name of the building is The Tavern. But anyone who has heard of it from travelers and explorers knows it as the Tavern at the End of the World.

Inside, there is a giant burly man tending bar. He has long blond-red hair in braids down his back, and his beard is also braided. He conceals his belly, unsuccessfully, under a large leather apron.

On this night, the man, Chaol, is polishing mugs. There are no guests at the Tavern tonight. A willowy black woman named Bellona is straightening the tables and chairs. They are both quiet, listening to the wind and the snow howl outside.

It is an hour before closing, and Chaol is contemplating closing up early.

He walks to the front door and pushes it open a crack to look out, shivering at the frosty winter air. The fog has caused the stones in the wall to settle, and Chaol is the only one who can fully close the door.

The night is a sliver of black. Before Chaol can use his meaty hands to slam the door shut, he sees the traveler.

The person is struggling through the wind, staggering from step to step but clearly moving towards the Tavern. Chaol calls back to Bellona, “A guest!” and steps out into the storm, heedless of the driving snow.

The traveler is heavily bundled up in furs and leathers, and only once Chaol has brought him inside and the traveler has peeled the outside clothes away that he is revealed: a young man of no more than twenty-and-five. Standing by the fire, he warms himself and...