The Opeka square shimmered under a late afternoon haze, the air thick with the scent of baked earth and faint traces of sour ale from Janko's drenching two days prior. Killyaen, perched on a barrel outside the Black Stone Tavern, gold-flecked eyes glinting, plotted his next masterpiece. His olive skin caught the sun, gold-tipped braid swaying as he fiddled with a vial of Moonflower sap, its illusionary shimmer promising chaos. The split-leaf amulet at his neck pulsed faintly, a whisper of secrets he barely noticed amidst his scheming. Kids still chanted "Cursed Cat, Cursed Cat, fell in a vat!" while Mima's posse muttered about Spirit Stones and "bewitched beacons" to cure Janko's so-called curse. The whisker-like scratches from that Moonshade Squirrel had faded, thanks to N'Nazmuz's curse, but Killyaen's grin hadn't—Janko's pride was ripe for another fall.
"Stirrin' trouble again, Supreme Elf?" Bera called, leaning against the tavern doorway, her dark curls spilling from her scarf, apron dusted with flour. Her eyes sparkled with mock reproach, but her smirk betrayed amusement.
"Janko's been glarin' at your tavern perch like it's a beasts' nest. Keep it up, and you'll be dodgin' more than squirrels."
"Dodging? Me?" Killyaen purred, vaulting off the barrel with a flourish, landing close enough to catch her lavender scent. He struck a pose, hip cocked, flashing a super-perverted grin that danced on the edge of decency.
"Bera, my fiery queen, I'd rather catch you. Say the word, and I'll paint you in Moonflower sap—slowly, for art's sake." He winked, leaning in, voice low and teasing. Bera snorted, swatting him with her apron, her cheeks flushing despite her sharp retort. "Keep your sap to yourself, you Gromble-brained elf! Go paint Janko instead." Her laugh, sharp as a Mithrilgard blade, only widened his grin.
Word in the tavern was Janko, still smarting from his ale-soaked tumble, planned to sabotage Killyaen's next shift by slipping sour Gromble oil into the stew pots. Crude, but bold. Killyaen, sharper than a Shadow Panther's claw, had other plans.
That morning, he'd scavenged a sack of Flaevyn feathers—light as mist, sticky as sin—from a Crestmoore trader's cart, left unattended near the square. With a pouch of Moonflower sap and some twine, he rigged a trap above Janko's favorite tavern stool: a net of feathers primed to drop when the oaf sat down, triggered by a taut string tied to the doorframe.
By noon, the tavern hummed with patrons, Marko nursing a tankard and spinning tales of Janko's "Cursed Cat" legend. When Janko swaggered in, whiskers twitching, Killyaen played innocent, polishing mugs behind the bar.
"Oi, Cat's Whiskers, try the stew!" he called, voice dripping with mock cheer. Janko, suspicious but too proud to back down, plopped onto his stool. The string snapped, and the net plummeted, dousing him in a cloud of glowing Flaevyn feathers that clung to his shirt, face, and whiskers like a radiant shroud. Moonflower sap's illusion made the feathers shimmer like a Storm Roc's plumage, turning Janko into a glowing, feathered spectacle.The tavern erupted. Marko choked on his ale, slamming the bar. "Cursed Cat's gone plumed!" he roared. Patrons howled, mugs clinking, as Janko flailed, feathers sticking worse than tar. "Killyaen, you bastard!" he bellowed, lunging over the bar, but Killyaen danced away, curse-enhanced agility—30 kg pressure from N'Nazmuz's gift—making him a blur.
"Careful, kitty, you'll molt!" Killyaen taunted, tossing a feather that stuck to Janko's nose. Bera, tray in hand, cackled, her eyes glinting with delight.
"Killyaen, you're a menace!" she snapped, then leaned closer, whispering,
"But that's the best plumin' I've seen, you wicked elf." Her breath tickled his ear, and Killyaen's grin turned downright sinful.
"Stick around, Bera, and I'll plume you next—private show, extra glow." She lobbed a bread roll at his head, her laugh half-outrage, half-charm, as patrons cheered the chaos.
Janko, glowing and fuming, stomped out, vowing revenge, feathers trailing like a comet's tail. Mima, perched by the square's well, seized the moment, preaching to her posse.
"It's dark magic, I tell ye! Only a Spirit Stone'll cleanse that Plumed Cat's curse!" Her tales, wild as a Void Leviathan, only fueled the kids' chants: "Cursed Cat, Cursed Cat, plumed like a hat!" Killyaen, basking in his prank's glory, slipped a few trade coins from the tavern till to a Crestmoore trader for another vial of Moonflower sap, stashed in his belt pouch—no spatial ring yet, just cunning and cloth.By dusk, Goran dragged Killyaen to the training field, unimpressed by tavern gossip.
"Feathers don't win wars," he growled, tossing a wooden sword. "Wind's Rebuke, tighter arcs. Get it right, or you're scrubbin' Janko's barn." Killyaen, still buzzing from his prank, swung with precision, braid whipping as his blade carved wind-swift arcs. Goran's gruff nod signaled progress, his Peak Element Lord Fire (Level 13) instincts catching Killyaen's growing finesse.
"Not bad, lad. Your qi-blindness don't hold you back—yet." Killyaen's strikes, fueled by N'Nazmuz's curse, hummed like a Luminous Oak's glow, each swing sharper than the last.Mid-drill, Killyaen's gaze drifted to a book peeking from his satchel—Chronicles of the Dragon-Gods, bought from a Crestmoore merchant. A passage about "ruins of old gods" had snagged his mind, tales of glowing relics buried in Solspire's hills. As he parried Goran's strike, the split-leaf amulet pulsed brighter, warm against his chest, syncing with Vuk's earlier tale of "ancient ruins" and a "glowing blue relic." Killyaen stumbled, blade dipping, and Goran's sword grazed his arm, drawing a thin line of blood that healed swiftly under the curse's power.
"Focus, Supreme Elf," Goran snapped, but his eyes softened, sensing the lad's restless ambition.
Night fell, the sky ablaze with Lava Dragon hues. Back at the tavern, Killyaen slumped at the bar, arm stinging faintly, book open to a sketch of Azurion's waves. Bera slid him a mug, smirking.
"Dreamin' of ruins now, Supreme Cat Elf? Or just Janko's next plume?" Killyaen grinned, leaning close, voice low and provocative. "Dreamin' of you, Bera, in feathers and sap—name the night, and I'm your artist." She tossed another roll, nailing his forehead, her laugh ringing as patrons hooted.
"Keep dreamin', you Gromble fool!" she shot back, but her eyes danced with mischief.
Outside, Mima's rants grew wilder, her posse buzzing about Killyaen's "dark magic" pranks and Spirit Stones as mythical cures. Marko, passing by, called,
"Nice plume job, Supreme Elf! Janko's gonna need a bathhouse!" Killyaen waved, amulet glinting faintly, its pulse a quiet nudge toward Solspire's mysteries. The Zenoite minefield, home to Rotting Blind Mice, loomed in his thoughts—a challenge Goran had hinted at, tied to Opeka's sparse wealth. With Wind's Rebuke sharpening, Janko's feathers fueling his fame, and ancient ruins whispering through his amulet, Killyaen was ready for whatever came next.