Killyaen, self-proclaimed Supreme Elf and Opeka's chaos gremlin, stood in the Black Stone Tavern, his pack bulging for the month-long trek to Adena. Outside, a Zorath—a Beginner Scholar (Level 3) beast with shimmering silver scales, hooves like warhammers, and a non-sentient temper to match—snorted, saddled for the ride. Killyaen's sack, stuffed with cunning Zenoite Krovar eyes and Rotting Blind Mice tails—moozze, Opeka's slang for the mindless skittering pests—reeked by the bar, drawing glares from patrons and a sly smirk from Bera.The tavern buzzed with midday chatter, farmers and weavers toasting to the Supreme Elf's departure. Marko, soot-stained from his streaked forge, clapped Killyaen's shoulder, nearly toppling him under N'Nazmuz's thirty-kilogram curse. "A farewell gift, elf," he grinned, tossing a leather groin guard etched with "Supreme Sword Sleeps Here." "Keep your blade safe for Bera when you drag your oily hide back!"The tavern erupted, tankards banging like festival drums. Killyaen caught it, winking despite his bruised ribs' protests. "Marko, this'll guard my legendary sword from Adena's sirens!" Janko, the Cursed Cat, sulked in a corner, muttering, "If you had a sword worth guarding." Killyaen waved a moozze tail, grinning. "Cursed Cat, my blade's bigger than your whiskers—Bera can vouch!" The crowd howled, Bera snorting, her wooden spoon twirling like a duelist's blade.Bera dodged Killyaen all day, her apron swaying as she flitted between tables, ignoring his pervy smirks. "Too hot for the Supreme Elf, Broom Queen?" he called, leaning close, his thigh gash throbbing. "Scared my charm'll melt you before I ride off?" She flicked ale at him, voice dripping heat. "My pot's too spicy for your greasy stick, elf. Find a Flaevyn to charm in Adena." Her wink was pure sin, and Killyaen staggered, clutching his heart. "Bera, your spice'll haunt my nights on that Zorath!" Patrons cackled, Marko choking on ale, soaking a weaver's tunic. Flaevyn, glowing birds with razor-sharp feathers from Opeka's cliffs, fluttered in Killyaen's mind as he dodged another ale splash.At closing, the tavern empty, Bera ambushed Killyaen by the hearth, her eyes wicked. "Think you're leaving without a taste?" she purred, pinning him to the wall, spoon clattering. Killyaen's grin was filthy. "Broom Queen, you gonna sharpen my sword before I go?" She kissed him, all fire and taunts, and they stumbled upstairs, clothes shedding like Flaevyn feathers. The night was a storm of passion, Bera's curves outshining any Adena fantasy, Killyaen's injuries forgotten. At dawn, she swatted his backside, smirking. "Don't expect that in Adena, you stinking Gromble. Come back alive." Killyaen limped out, winking. "For your pot, love, I'll slay zveri from here to Adena."By midday, Killyaen readied his Zorath in Opeka's square, packing Krovar eyes and a pulsing Zenoite shard. Goran waited at their training field, blades drawn under cliffs carved with Azurion's waves. "Last spar, elf," he growled. Killyaen drew his twin swords—Wind's Rebuke and Thunder's Edge—his curse dragging each step like a Zenoite boulder. They clashed, Wind's Rebuke parrying Goran's strikes, Thunder's Edge weaving past his guard. Killyaen's freakish strength pushed Goran back, but the Destroyer's skill landed a bruise on his shoulder."Too slow," Goran grunted, eyes glinting with pride. Killyaen panted, ribs burning. "Give me a year, and I'll shave your beard!" Goran sheathed his blade, tossing Killyaen a silver ring. "Spatial ring," he said. "Worth a king's ransom in Opeka. In Adena, it's basic—stores gear, food, weapons, better than your sack." Killyaen slipped it on, jaw dropping as it swallowed his boots. Goran handed him a black dagger, its Teridian steel gleaming like a void. "From my Orc War days. Show it to Brakus in Adena. Ask if he's still making love with his weapons," he said with a smirk. Killyaen clutched it, stunned. "This? You're making me blush!" Goran swatted him, chuckling. "Don't lose it, fool."As sunset bled gold over Opeka's hills, Killyaen gathered the village—Bera, Marko, Mirna, Janko, Elder Mara, kids, every soul he'd pranked or loved—in the square for farewells and his grandest prank. The crowd braced for a Cursed Cat roast, but Killyaen turned to Goran, grinning like a moozze with a stolen feast.Overnight, he'd built a colossal wooden shrine on the training field—Goran's bearded face carved sky-high, tankard belching fire, clutching a tiny Killyaen figure with a monstrous "sword" swinging low, dwarfing Goran's pitiful twig. Painted in glowing Zenoite: "Goran, Father of the Supreme Elf, Drunk of Aenerios" and "My sword's bigger, you ol' drunk!" Rigs sprayed Gromble oil clouds, but Killyaen added chaos: forge drums boomed, the statue's eyes flashed Moonflower sap sparks, and it farted moozze-scented smoke that choked the village. "For every bruise!" Killyaen crowed, dodging a tankard.Elder Mara, her earth charms rippling the ground to quell the smoke, let slip a laugh, calling out, "Maciji brk, look at you!" to Janko, her voice carrying over the chaos. The village froze, then roared with laughter—farmers doubled over, kids chanting "Cat's Whiskers!" Janko's jaw dropped, his scowl shattered, shock painting his face as Mara's slip ignited the square. "Mara?!" he sputtered, half-laughing, half-mortified.The crowd lost it—Bera's spoon fell, her laughter shaking the guild hall; Marko choked, ale spraying. Goran, oil-soaked, roared, "You Gromble bastard!" but tears cut his beard, memories flashing: finding Killyaen in the forest, teaching him blades, watching him rise. Janko, wiping tears, wailed, "Impossible! He skipped me?" He laughed, half sobbing, half thrilled. "That idiot's gone! My days'll be quiet!"Killyaen, mounted on his Zorath, waved, but as he galloped off, he yelled, "Cursed Cat, I didn't forget you!" The sun's last rays faded, and Janko's whiskers blazed like twin moons, dusted with Moonflower sap from his cloak. His cottage and barn ignited in neon glory, a Zenoite-painted sign blazing: "Here Sleeps the Supreme Elf's Cursed Cat." From Marko's forge, a swarm of Rotting Blind Mice, ale-soaked in Gromble oil, erupted, their stench promising months of scrubbing. Mirna's door glowed with "Haunted Hag," rigged to wail like a moozze choir.Opeka froze, then exploded—farmers wept with laughter, weavers gasped. Bera clutched Marko, shouting, "He planned every damn thing!" Janko collapsed, glowing and sobbing, while Marko cursed his forge's doom. Mirna shrieked, shaking her fist. Mara's earth charms pulsed, her smirk conceding Killyaen's genius. Killyaen galloped into the dusk, grinning like a mad god. "Adena, brace yourself!" he shouted, Opeka's cheers and curses echoing, the shrine's smoke curling skyward like Azurion's waves. Goran, tears streaking his oil-soaked beard, watched the Zorath vanish, Killyaen's legend etched into Aeneria's soul.
