The warm, honeyed glow spilling from Mato's Tavern wasn't just light; it was a physical force, a wall of sound, scent, and sheer, boisterous life that hit them like a friendly tidal wave as they crossed the threshold. Mato's Tavern was less a building and more a living ecosystem carved into the base of a gargantuan branch, its ceiling vaulted like a cathedral's, lost in smoke-hazed shadows. Massive tables hewn from single slabs of ironwood groaned under whole roasted beasts still sizzling on spits, mountains of root vegetables, and tankards large enough to bathe in. The air was thick and intoxicating – the rich, caramelized scent of crackling boar skin (eliciting Lucky Roux's frantic cries), the sharp tang of fermented berry mead, the earthy aroma of wet moss trodden deep into the flagstone floor, and the underlying musk of happy, sweating giants and pirates.
Giant-sized hearths roared at either end, flames licking logs as thick as ship masts, casting flickering, dramatic shadows that danced across walls adorned with ancient shields, preserved sea monster jaws, and intricate tapestries depicting legendary Elbaph battles. Underfoot, nestled amongst the rushes, peculiar bioluminescent mushrooms pulsed softly with each raucous cheer, their faint blue glow adding an otherworldly shimmer to the sticky floorboards. High in the rafters, unseen creatures – perhaps giant squirrels or peculiar birds – rustled, dropping the occasional acorn shell onto unwary patrons below. It was chaos orchestrated to perfection – the thunderous clatter of tankards, Yasopp's booming laugh as he arm-wrestled a grinning giant, Gab's lute weaving a lively shanty through the din, Monster and Building Snake leading an off-key chorus, Hongo meticulously dissecting a roast fowl near Bonk Punch, who was attempting to juggle bread rolls. The very air vibrated with camaraderie.
Ben Beckman, an island of calm amidst the storm, leaned against the impossibly long bar carved from a single petrified log. He spotted them, raised his tankard in a silent salute, and gestured towards a miraculously clear space beside him, his sharp eyes taking in their arrival with quiet assessment.
But before they could navigate the throng, a small hurricane named Colon spotted them. "UNCLE SHANKS! PAPA!" he shrieked, voice cutting through the din. He barreled through the forest of legs, a slight giant boy navigating a forest of towering legs and pirates with fearless agility. Trailing him like an eager, azure comet, Jelly "Giggles" Squish bounced erratically, leaving faintly glittering patches on knees and boots. Colon skidded to a halt, bouncing on his toes, eyes wide as saucers. "You'll never guess! We found a secret tunnel behind the smithy! Well, Jelly bounced through the wall kinda, but it counts! And there were these GLOWY BUGS! And then Mister Yasopp let me look through his super scope! I saw a cloud shaped like a walrus eating a fish! And Jelly turned into a paddle when Bonk Punch dropped his bread in the ale trough! It was AMAZING! Can I be a pirate? PLEASE?!"
Jelly wobbled beside him, beaming. "BLOOP! Adventure! Bestest secret tunnel bugs EVER!"
Mato, the tavern's bashful proprietress, materialized behind the bar like a force of nature. She was a towering giantess with a curly blond bob. Her hazel eyes, the color of aged whiskey, immediately locked onto Shanks, a shy smile curving her lips as she effortlessly hefted a jug larger than a man onto the counter. "Hello, Shanks," she blushed, her voice squeaked like a shy schoolgirl. "It is good to see you again. The usual volcanic draft for you and your serious co-pilot?" She nodded towards Ben. "And for the rest of the illustrious newcomers? Mead? Cider? Something to wash the root-dust off?"
Before Shanks could answer, the tavern doors swung open again, revealing Ripley. She was tall and strong, her dark hair pulled into two practical braids, her eyes – the same sharp grey as Scopper's – scanning the room with calm authority. She wore a dark tank top with a horned skull and fur boots. Colon spotted her instantly. "MAMA!" He darted over, grabbing her hand and tugging her towards the group. "Look! Uncle Shanks! And Papa! And I saw SECRET TUNNELS! And Jelly! And I wanna be a PIRATE!"
Ripley chuckled, a warm, resonant sound that seemed to momentarily calm the air around her. She ruffled Colon's hair affectionately. "Secret tunnels again, sprout? And skipping Master Blade's math lecture? That sounds suspiciously like last Tuesday's adventure." Her gaze swept over Colon's excited face and the bouncing blue entity beside him, then landed on Gaban with a knowing, slightly amused arch of her brow. "Seems the pirate life is proving quite the distraction for our scholar."
Jelly bounced enthusiastically. "Bloop! Adventure pirate scholar!"
Gaban, seeing a potential ally managing the whirlwind that was their son, waved Ripley over, a relieved grin replacing his earlier panic. "Join us, Ripp! Seems our boy's already signed articles with Red Hairs, apparently. Needs your permission to sail the Grand Line hunting walrus-clouds and glowy bugs."
Shanks laughed, patting Colon's shoulders. "He's got the spirit! Found a secret tunnel and everything! Takes after his old man in the troublemaking department, clearly."
Marya observed the familial warmth and chaotic energy with her usual detached calm. She noted the giant-sized tankards, the effortless way Mato handled barrel-sized mugs, the genuine affection between Ripley and Colon, and the way Jelly's bioluminescence pulsed faintly in time with the stomping rhythm of a nearby drinking song. The tavern's sheer, overwhelming life was a stark contrast to the whispering stillness of the library or the chilling anomaly in the branches. It was noisy, messy, and distracting… yet undeniably vibrant. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched her lips as Colon passionately described the walrus-cloud to an indulgent Ripley, while Jelly attempted to mimic its shape, resulting in a wobbling, lumpy blue blob. She found a relatively quiet spot near Ben Beckman, content to observe the spectacle, the promise of answers momentarily held at bay by the boisterous symphony of Mato's Tavern.
The symphony of Mato's Tavern – the roar of laughter, the thunderous clatter of tankards, Lucky Roux's ecstatic moans over crackling boar skin – suddenly crescendoed as the kitchen doors exploded outward. Brenna "Hearth-Hand" filled the archway, a volcanic island of joyous fury. At 105 feet, her rotund frame radiated palpable heat, making the air shimmer around her. Fiery red dreadlocks, thick as anchor chains and woven with an arsenal of Adam Wood-handled knives (each named – "Celestial Skewer," "World Gov't Whisk"), swung like battle standards. Cracked magma veins pulsed beneath her spice-caked skin, releasing waves of scent that hit like a physical force: fiery chilies, sweet cinnamon, and the sharp tang of volcanic sulfur. Her magnificent salamander-scale cloak, shifting from emerald to molten gold in the hearth light, billowed behind her as she hefted platters the size of small boats, piled high with steaming, glistening roasts, mountains of roasted root vegetables dripping with herb-infused butter, and loaves of bread so large they could roof a cottage.
"MAKE WAY FOR THE FEAST, YOU HALF-STARVED LAND LUBBERS!" Brenna bellowed, her voice a seismic rumble that momentarily drowned the din. She moved with surprising grace for her size, weaving through the crowd. "Bjorn! Root-Tether Stew for your lads – extra granite skin for those Navy knuckle-dusters! Yasopp! Try the Moon-Mind Broth, clears the head better than any scope polish! Made with Ylva's own tears, so sip it respectful-like!" She deposited a cauldron before a table of Rootguard warriors, the stew within shimmering with a faint, ethereal light. She winked at a blushing young giantess. "And for you, my dear, the 'Heart-Thaw Pie' – just a pinch of volcanic glass for sparkle!" She deftly avoided Colon and Jelly as they zipped past her legs; Jelly trying to snag a falling breadcrumb the size of his head, bouncing excitedly, yelling, "BLOOP! SPARKLY PIE!"
The tavern's energy shifted, focusing on the force of nature that was Brenna. Patrons cheered, raising tankards. "HAIL THE SPICE QUEEN!" "SAVE ME A LEG, BRENNA!" Her laughter boomed, shaking dust from the rafters. "Plenty for all! Eat till your belts groan and your worries drown in gravy!" She spotted the group at the bar and beamed, heat radiating from her like a forge. "Shanks! Saul! Scopper! Ripley! And the quiet shadow!" She nodded at Marya, her eyes sharp despite the joviality. "Special batch just for you lot – 'Bootleg Brew'. Simmered with defiance and a dash of chili-root for kick! Don't worry," she added with a conspiratorial wink to Ripley, "the kick's just metaphorical... mostly."
As Brenna began distributing platters with the efficiency of a quartermaster deploying troops, a deep, resonant hum began to fill the space, cutting through the feasting clamor. It came from Rurik "Boulder-Tongue", who had risen from a shaded corner near the largest hearth. At 95 feet, he was a monolith of living stone. Granite-textured skin, cracked and fissured, revealed glowing magma veins beneath, pulsing like a slow, deep heartbeat. His massive beard wasn't just hair; it was a living ecosystem of moss and vines, housing bioluminescent beetles that flitted and swirled, forming shifting constellations against the dark green. Flowers woven into his vine-hair trembled and began to bloom – vibrant blues and golds – as he drew breath. His obsidian chisel-fingers rested on the bar counter, and his eyes smoldered like banked forge-coals.
The tavern fell into a hushed, expectant silence. Even Brenna paused, a massive ladle dripping stew suspended in mid-air. Colon froze, eyes wide, a half-gnawed bread crust forgotten in his hand. Jelly stopped bouncing, his form shimmering with reflected beetle-light.
Rurik threw back his head, moss beard swaying, and unleashed his Saga Shout.
It wasn't just sound; it was a physical wave, a resonant frequency that vibrated in the chest and hummed in the bones. The very flagstones beneath their feet seemed to thrum in harmony. He sang not of battles won or treasures plundered, but of Freyja.
>"Hear now the roots, where shadows creep deep,
>Where golden chains a weary vigil keep.
>A Lady bound, with starlight in her tears,
>Holding back the Maw of empty years."
His voice, rich and deep as an earthquake, painted pictures in the smoky air: Freyja, radiant and fierce, woven from starlight and Seidr; the treacherous Aesir, clad in false holiness; the desperate pact with the World Tree Adam; the binding deep within the sunless Underworld. Flowers bloomed explosively across his hair and beard with each resonant truth. The beetles swirled faster, their light casting moving constellations on the ceiling – a golden lattice representing the Ward, a swirling black void for the Abyss.
>"Her tears like amber, holding memories bright,
>Of sunlit groves and Vanir's fading light.
>False Einherjar draw near, with marks of dread,
>To wake the hunger of the Maw instead!"
As Rurik sang of the Einherjar encroachment, a visible ripple passed through him. A fresh, glowing rune-burn scar, shaped like a broken chain, seared itself onto the granite skin of his massive forearm. He didn't flinch, his voice growing louder, more defiant, shaking tankards on tables. Brenna's hand tightened on her ladle, the volcanic veins in her skin pulsing brighter. A single, glowing amber chunk nestled among the stew ingredients in her nearest pot flared momentarily. Saul's usually cheerful face was solemn, his large hands clenched. Scopper watched Rurik with sharp, assessing eyes. Shanks leaned forward, his usual grin replaced by focused intensity. Ben Beckman simply watched, his expression unreadable but utterly attentive. Marya, though outwardly still as a statue beside Ben, felt the resonance in her bones, her golden eyes fixed on the glowing scar on Rurik's arm – a visceral manifestation of truth's cost.
Rurik ended with the prophecy's grim warning, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper that carried to every corner:
>"Pray the Lady sleeps her endless sleep—
>Lest the world her wrath shall reap."
The final note hung in the sudden, profound silence. The only sounds were the crackle of the hearth fires and the faint hum of the bioluminescent beetles settling in Rurik's beard. Then, the tavern erupted. Not in raucous cheers, but in a thunderous, unified stomp of giant feet that shook the very foundations – a deep, resonant acknowledgment of the saga sung, the truth told, the sacrifice remembered. Tankards were raised not in merriment, but in solemn salute.
Brenna was the first to break the reverent pause, slamming her ladle down with a clang that echoed. "RIGHT THEN!" she boomed, her voice thick with unshed tears she masked with ferocious cheer. "Enough gloom! Truth's told, now fill your bellies! Strength for the days ahead! Eat! DRINK! And Rurik, you magnificent rock-man, next bowl of Root-Tether Stew is on the house! Extra Seidr-charged herbs!" She began ladling stew with renewed vigor, the heat radiating from her chasing away the lingering chill of the saga's end. Colon tugged at Ripley's sleeve, whispering questions about Freyja, while Jelly bounced hesitantly towards Rurik, mesmerized by the glowing beetles. The feast resumed, the weight of the ballad now woven into the fabric of the night, a reminder beneath the tavern's vibrant life of the deeper currents flowing through Elbaph's roots.
The warm fug of Mato's Tavern – thick with the scents of roasting meat, spilled mead, Brenna's volcanic spices, and the earthy tang of moss trodden deep into the flagstones – wrapped around the group at the bar like a boisterous blanket. Colon and Jelly were a whirlwind of motion: Colon attempting to mimic Rurik's resonant hum, puffing out his cheeks until he nearly passed out, while Jelly bounced nearby, his gelatinous form shimmering with faint blue light as he tried to catch the bioluminescent beetles drifting from Rurik's beard. "Bloop! Shiny friends! Can I be a rock-man?" Jelly chirped, wobbling earnestly.
Saul, his massive frame leaning against the bar counter, chuckled as he watched, but a thoughtful frown creased his brow. He took a long pull from a tankard the size of a washtub, the foam clinging to his beard. "That gust earlier," he rumbled, his voice cutting through the nearby din of Gab's lute and Bonk Punch's bread-roll juggling. "Cold as a sea serpent's heart. And those... threads. Like rot crawling under the moss. Unsettling."
Ripley, seated beside Gaban and deftly intercepting Colon before he could collide with a serving giant, nodded grimly. "Not just here. The groves near the Sunward Paths have patches where the leaves just... wither overnight. One tree blooms black flowers, its neighbor turns to stone dust. It defies nature."
Ben Beckman, leaning against the polished petrified wood bar next to Marya, tapped ash from his cigarillo into a giant clamshell ashtray. His sharp eyes scanned the room, ever watchful. "The currents approaching Elbaph were... wrong," he stated, his voice calm but carrying weight. "Not weather patterns. Felt like the sea itself was resisting us. Thick in places, unnaturally cold swirls in others. Like navigating through chilled tar." He took a measured sip of his own, smaller drink. "The Red Force groaned like she hadn't since the New World maelstroms."
Gaban, swirling a potent-smelling Elbaf spirit in a heavy stone mug, grunted. "Fits with what Ylva's been muttering about. 'Shatter-Dreams,' she calls 'em. Visions cracking apart. And the Volva sisters... some are whispering of the 'Maw's laughter' near Adam's roots. Sounds like nonsense, but when the Sightless Seer trembles and roots bleed grey..." He trailed off, the implications heavy.
He turned his sharp gaze, framed by his round sunglasses, towards Shanks. "What about the open waters, Red? Seen anything that doesn't fit the usual brand of weird? Sea kings acting strange? Islands feeling... thin?"
Shanks exchanged a brief, inscrutable look with Ben. He leaned back on his stool, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Ben's right, the sea's always got surprises. Whirlpools that sing, fog that steals shadows, islands that vanish if you blink." He took a hearty swig of his own tankard. "But tying it directly to Elbaph's shivers? Hard to say. The Grand Line eats normal for breakfast. Could be connected, could be the ocean just hiccuping." He shrugged, though his eyes held a flicker of deeper consideration.
Marya, who had been observing the exchange with her customary detached calm, golden eyes reflecting the flickering hearth light, spoke up. Her voice was clear and measured, cutting through the speculation. "Perhaps the Owl Library holds correlating data. Cross-referencing maritime anomalies with Elbaf's environmental shifts could yield patterns." It was a practical, scholarly approach, her way of contributing without engaging in the emotional weight of the unknown.
Gaban seized the opening like a lifeline, the earlier tension dissolving into his familiar mischievous grin. He slammed his mug down, the sound echoing. "Patterns, schmatterns! Forget dusty scrolls for a moment, little hawk! You promised me a spar!" He jabbed a finger towards her, the playful challenge back in full force. "First light. Training grounds. Let's see if that sharp tongue of yours translates to sharp steel!"
The declaration acted like a spark. Yasopp, overhearing from a nearby table where he was arm-wrestling a giant, bellowed, "WAGER'S ON! Ten barrels of mead on the new lass!" Limejuice and Bonk Punch immediately started taking side bets. Monster roared, "FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!" Building Snake pounded the table in rhythm. Gab's lute abruptly shifted into a lively, anticipatory tune. Hongo sighed, adjusting his glasses, while Lucky Roux paused mid-bite into a boar leg the size of a small tree, juice running down his chin. "Can I watch while eating?" he mumbled.
Marya arched a single, elegant eyebrow at the sudden eruption of enthusiasm directed her way. She met Gaban's eager gaze, a ghost of a smirk touching her lips. "Very well," she said, her tone dry as sun-bleached bone. "I suppose someone needs to help you dust off your hip brace before it seizes entirely. Dawn it is." Her flippant agreement, laced with that familiar Mihawk-esque barb, was met with another roar of approval from the Red Hair Pirates and the surrounding giants.
The bar erupted anew, not with solemnity, but with the vibrant, chaotic energy of anticipated spectacle. Rurik's ballad still hung in the air, a somber undercurrent, but the promise of a clash between the legendary Roger Pirate and Mihawk's enigmatic daughter sent a fresh wave of boisterous life through Mato's Tavern. Brenna, overhearing the commotion, bellowed from the kitchen doorway, "I'll spice the victor's breakfast! Extra volcanic kick for the winner! Now who's letting the 'World Gov't Whisk' stew burn?!" The feast surged forward, the strange anomalies momentarily forgotten in the face of camaraderie, spice, and the promise of a dawn duel.