The morning sun glinted off Opeka's dusty square, still littered with traces of yesterday's flour explosion that had crowned Janko the "Plumed Cat." Killyaen, lounging against the Black Stone Tavern's wall, twirled a moozze tail between his fingers, gold-flecked eyes scanning for his next canvas. His olive skin caught the light, gold-tipped braid swaying as he smirked, the split-leaf amulet at his neck pulsing faintly—unnoticed amidst his scheming.
The village buzzed with whispers of his latest masterpiece: Janko's flour-dusted tumble, now immortalized by kids chanting "Cursed Cat, Cursed Cat!" But Killyaen, self-dubbed Supreme Elf, knew Janko's pride wouldn't rest. The man was plotting, and Killyaen's cunning mind was already three steps ahead.
"Oi, Killyaen, you're stirrin' a storm," Bera called from the tavern doorway, her dark curls escaping her scarf, hands on hips. Her apron was smudged with flour—likely from her own battle with dough—and her eyes sparked with a mix of exasperation and amusement. "Janko's been skulkin' like a kicked zveri. Keep pokin' him, and you'll be scrubbin' pots till your hands bleed."
"Bleed these hands, Bera? You wound me!" Killyaen purred, sauntering closer, his voice dripping with mock hurt. He struck a pose, hip cocked, flashing a super-perverted grin that pushed every boundary.
"Why scrub when I could polish you, my fiery queen? Name the time, and I'll bring the charm." He leaned in, close enough to catch her lavender scent, winking with enough heat to spark a Luminous Oak. Bera snorted, swatting him with her apron, her cheeks flushing despite herself.
"Dream on, you Gromble bastard. Go charm a moozze instead." Her smile, sharp as a Mithrilgard blade, only fueled his grin.
The square stirred as Marko, Opeka's wiry blacksmith, ambled over, soot-streaked apron flapping.
"Kids are singin' 'Cursed Cat' at Janko's barn again," he said, grinning like a Shadow Panther.
"Mima's swearin' it's dark magic, says only a Spirit Stone can fix Janko's 'curse." He chuckled, accepting a tankard Killyaen slid his way. Spirit Stones—glowing myths in Opeka, hoarded by Solspire's elites—were as real to villagers as Dragon-Gods. But Mima's tales, wild as they were, had a knack for sticking.
"Dark magic? Just flour and genius," Killyaen said, polishing a tankard with a flourish. "Mima's tales keep Opeka lively, though. I'll take the credit." But a tavern regular had muttered something earlier: Janko, still fuming from his floury defeat, planned to strike back by ruining Killyaen's prized books—leather-bound tomes from a Crestmoore merchant, stashed in the tavern loft. His scheme? Sneak in and douse them with rancid Gromble fat from the butcher's. Crude, petty, and pure Janko.Killyaen, sharper than a Night Elf's blade, was ready to turn the tables.
That afternoon, while Janko thought he was sly, Killyaen rigged the loft. He swapped his books for Goran's old ledgers—dull as dirt—then tied a bucket of diluted ale, sour and stinky, to a rope above the trapdoor. When Janko, lumbering and smug, crept up and triggered the tripwire, the bucket tipped, drenching him in a foul wave that soaked his shirt and clung to his flour-faded whiskers.
Killyaen, crouched behind a barrel, cackled as Janko flailed, slipping on the wet ladder and crashing to the tavern floor with a thud that rattled mugs. Patrons roared, Marko spitting ale in laughter.
"Cursed Cat's gone swimmin'!" Killyaen crowed, popping up.
"Janko, you smell like a brewery's bad day!" Janko, sopping and red-faced, lunged, but Killyaen danced away, his curse-enhanced agility—30 kg pressure from N'Nazmuz's forbidden gift—making him untouchable. "Careful, kitty, you'll scare the moozze with that stench!"
Bera emerged from the kitchen, tray in hand, scowl cracking into a grin. "Killyaen, you're beggin' for a beatin'!" she snapped, then leaned closer, eyes glinting.
"But if you're dunkin' Janko, save me a front-row seat, you wicked elf." Killyaen winked, leaning in too close, voice low and teasing. "Only if you bake me a victory pie, sweet Bera. Extra sugar, just for my lips." Her laugh was half-outrage, half-delight as she swatted him with her tray, the sting sharp but playful. Janko, dripping and muttering curses, stomped out, leaving a trail of ale and wounded pride.
By dusk, the square hummed with kids chanting, "Cursed Cat, Cursed Cat, fell in a vat!" while Mima's posse spun tales of "bewitched ale" and "cursed beacons." Goran, unimpressed, dragged Killyaen to the training field.
"Pranks don't dodge work," he growled, tossing a wooden sword. "Wind's Rebuke, again. Get it right, or you're cleanin' Janko's barn." The Storm Technique, a non-Qi swordsmanship skill, channeled Killyaen's training into wind-swift strikes.Killyaen, buzzing from his prank, swung with gusto, braid whipping as he pivoted. But mid-spin, he misjudged, clipping a branch and sending a furious Moonshade Squirrel—silvery fur flashing—onto his face. Its claws raked under his nose, leaving whisker-like scratches before it scampered off. Killyaen yelped, sword stuck in the dirt, scratches stinging as N'Nazmuz's curse kicked in, rapid healing already fading the marks.
"Supreme Elf, my arse," Goran muttered, yanking the sword free.
"Focus, or squirrels'll be your doom."Killyaen, leaves in his braid, touched the fading scratches and grinned.
"Whiskers? Janko's gonna love this," he muttered, plotting.
By evening, his strikes were sharper, the blade whistling like a Storm Roc's cry, earning Goran's grudging nod.
"Not awful. Keep at it."
As night fell, the sky blazed with Lava Dragon hues, and Killyaen trudged back to the tavern, sore but smug. The whisker-like scratches, nearly gone, still faintly traced his face, itching with comedic potential. Inside, the tavern roared with laughter as Marko spotted him. "Oi, Supreme Elf, the Cursed Cat's got a twin!" he called, slapping the bar. Patrons howled, raising mugs to the "Cursed Cat Twins."Bera leaned over the counter, smirking, eyes raking Killyaen with mock appraisal.
"Killyaen, did Janko curse you, or is that squirrel your new lover?" Killyaen struck a pose, puffing his chest, voice dripping with mischief.
"Behold, the Supreme Cat Elf, Bera! Janko's whiskers wish they were this dashing!" He twirled a rag like a cape, then leaned closer, whispering loud enough for all to hear. "Jealous, my queen? I could paint whiskers on you too—private session, just us and some Gromble oil." Bera's laugh was half-choke, half-cackle as she lobbed a bread roll at his head, patrons toasting the chaos with cheers.
The square outside buzzed—kids chanting their rhyme, Mima's tales of Killyaen's "magic" pranks growing wilder, some muttering about Spirit Stones as if he hid one in his pouch. Marko, later at his forge, called,
"Nice one, Supreme Cat Elf! Next time, dunk Janko in honey!" Killyaen waved, grin bright as his glow-in-the-dark paint, amulet glinting faintly. The relic, found with him as a babe in Opeka's forest, felt warm, a whisper of secrets tied to those "ruins of old gods" from his books.
Another day in Opeka, another prank turned legend. With Wind's Rebuke sharpening, whisker scratches fueling his jests, and laughter stoking his fame, Killyaen was ready for Janko's next move—or whatever those ancient ruins might hold.