The Black Stone Tavern buzzed like a swarm of Mist Phantoms, the air thick with the fallout of Janko's "Cursed Cat" nickname, now Opeka's anthem thanks to Killyaen's glow-in-the-dark barn and black-painted whiskers. Killyaen, the self-proclaimed Supreme Elf, leaned against the counter, wiping tables with a rag and a grin that could charm a Shadow Panther. His olive skin glowed in the morning light, his gold-tipped braid swaying, his gold-flecked eyes sparkling with the promise of chaos. Yesterday's flour prank, turning Janko's revenge into a dusty disaster, had only fanned his legend, but Killyaen knew Janko wasn't done. The big man was as stubborn as an Ironhide Rhino and twice as vengeful, and Killyaen's sly mind was already sniffing out the next move."Oi, Killyaen, don't get too smug, you troublemaker," Bera called from the kitchen, her voice slicing through the clatter of pans like a Mithrilgard blade. Her dark curls, barely tamed by her scarf, bounced as she leaned out, wooden spoon aimed like a wand. "Janko's skulking like a kicked Silver Wolf. Keep poking him, and you'll be scrubbing floors till your pretty hands blister.""Pretty hands, Bera? Oh, you're gonna make me blush!" Killyaen purred, striking a dramatic pose with the rag, one hip cocked and eyes half-lidded in mock seduction. "But why scrub when I could sweep you off your feet instead, my fiery kitchen queen?" His super-perverted grin pushed every boundary, and Bera's snort was half-amused, half-exasperated as she flung a dishcloth at him. He dodged, blowing her a kiss that could've ignited a Luminous Oak. "Janko's the Cursed Cat now, not a Wolf. He's too busy licking his pride to catch this Supreme Elf!"The tavern door swung open, and Marko, Opeka's wiry blacksmith, sauntered in, his apron smudged with soot and his grin sharper than a fresh blade. "Kids were chanting 'Cursed Cat' at Janko's barn again," he said, sliding onto a stool. "Old Lady Mirna's blaming you, Killyaen. Says only a Spirit Stone can fix the 'dark magic' on Janko's face." He chuckled, sipping an ale Killyaen slid his way. Spirit Stones—glowing gems hoarded by Opeka's elite like Goran, the headwoman, or the village guard—were more myth than reality in this dusty speck of Solaria, but Mirna's rumors spread faster than Killyaen's pranks."Dark magic? Nah, just paint and pure genius," Killyaen said, polishing a tankard with a flourish. "I'll take the credit—it keeps Opeka lively." But he knew Janko was plotting. A tavern regular had whispered that the big man, still sporting faint whiskers, planned to ruin Killyaen's prized books—leather-bound treasures from the traveling merchant. Janko's scheme? Sneak into the tavern's loft and douse them with rancid pig fat from the butcher's. Crude, messy, and pure Janko.Killyaen, sharper than a Night Elf spy and twice as sly, was ready to flip the script. That afternoon, while Janko thought he was stealthy, Killyaen rigged the loft. He swapped his books for old ledgers Goran never checked, then tied a bucket of diluted ale—stinky but harmless—to a rope above the trapdoor. When Janko, lumbering and smug, crept up and triggered the trapdoor, the bucket tipped, drenching him in a sour wave that soaked his shirt and clung to his whiskers.Killyaen, hidden behind a barrel, cackled as Janko flailed, slipping on the wet ladder and crashing to the floor with a thud that shook the rafters. Patrons roared with laughter, Marko nearly choking on his ale. "Cursed Cat's gone for a swim!" Killyaen crowed, popping up. "Janko, you smell like a brewery's bad day!" Janko, sopping and red-faced, lunged, but Killyaen danced away, his agility honed by years of dodging Goran's swings. "Careful, kitty, you'll scare the mice with that stench!"Bera stormed out, tray in hand, but her scowl cracked into a grin. "Killyaen, you're begging for a grave!" she snapped, then leaned closer, eyes glinting. "But if you're gonna dunk Janko, at least invite me to watch, you wicked elf." Killyaen winked, leaning in too close, voice low and teasing. "Only if you promise to bake me a victory pie, my sweet Bera. Extra sugar, just for me." Her laugh was a mix of outrage and amusement as she swatted him with her tray, hard enough to sting but not to bruise. Janko, dripping and muttering curses, stomped out, leaving a trail of ale and wounded pride.By evening, the kids in the square chanted "Cursed Cat, Cursed Cat, fell in a vat!" while grandmothers like Mirna spun tales of "bewitched ale." Goran, unimpressed, hauled Killyaen to the field for training. "No pranks dodge work," he growled, tossing a wooden practice sword. "Wind's Rebuke, again. Get it right, or you're scrubbing Janko's barn." The Storm Technique, a swordsmanship skill, used Killyaen's training to anchor powerful, wind-swift strikes.Killyaen, buzzing from his prank, swung with gusto, braid swinging as he pivoted. But mid-spin, he overshot his arc, clipped a branch, and sent a shower of leaves and a furious Moonshade Squirrel onto his head. The squirrel, chattering like a tiny critic, scratched under his nose, leaving whisker-like marks before scampering off. Killyaen flailed, sword stuck in the dirt, the scratches stinging. "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—already healing fast—and grinned. "Whiskers? Janko's gonna love this," he muttered, plotting. By dusk, his strikes were cleaner, the blade whistling like a Storm Roc's cry, earning Goran's grudging nod. "Not awful. Keep at it."As the sun dipped, painting the sky in Lava Dragon flames, Killyaen trudged back to the tavern, sore but smug. The whisker-like scratches, though nearly gone, still faintly traced his face, itching with comedic gold. Stepping inside, he met a chorus of snickers. Marko, nursing an ale, spotted them first. "Oi, Supreme Elf, the Cursed Cat's got a twin!" he called, slapping the bar as patrons roared.Bera leaned over the counter, smirking, her 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 flirtatious mischief. "Behold, the Supreme Cat Elf, Bera! Janko's whiskers wish they were this dashing!" He twirled the rag like a cape, then leaned closer, whispering loud enough for the tavern to hear. "Jealous, my queen? I could paint whiskers on you too—private session, just us." Bera's laugh was half-choke, half-cackle as she lobbed a bread roll at his head, patrons toasting the "Cursed Cat Twins" with howls of glee. Killyaen's grin widened, the scratches another notch in his legend.The village square buzzed—kids chanting their "Cursed Cat" rhyme, Mirna's posse spinning tales of Killyaen's "magic" pranks, some whispering about Spirit Stones as if Killyaen hid one in his braid. Marko, hammering a horseshoe at his forge, called, "Nice one, Supreme Cat Elf! Next time, dunk Janko in honey!" Killyaen waved, grin bright as his barn paint, the split-leaf amulet glinting faintly. The relic, found with him as a babe in Solaria's forest inscribed "Killyaen," felt cool, a hint of secrets he didn't grasp.Another day in Opeka, another prank turned legend. With Wind's Rebuke sharpening his blade, whisker scratches fueling his jests, and laughter stoking his fame, the Supreme Elf was ready for whatever came next—even if it was another scheme to keep Opeka on its toes.
