The Black Stone Tavern, hummed with the fallout of Janko's "Cursed Cat" nickname, now a village anthem thanks to Killy's glow-in-the-dark barn and black-painted whiskers. Killy leaned against the tavern counter, wiping tables with a rag and a grin that could charm a dragon. His olive skin glowed in the morning light, his gold-tipped braid swinging as he moved, his black eyes flecked with gold sparkling with the promise of more chaos. Yesterday's flour prank, where he'd turned Janko's revenge into a dusty disaster, had only fanned the flames of his legend, but Killy knew Janko wasn't done.
The big man was as stubborn as a drulox and twice as vengeful, and Killy's sharp mind was already sniffing out the next move."
Oi, Killy, don't get too smug," Bera called from the kitchen, her voice sharp over the clatter of pans. Her dark curls, barely tamed by her scarf, bobbed as she poked her head out, wooden spoon in hand.
"Janko's been skulking around like a kicked dog. You keep poking him, and you'll be scrubbing more than tables."
"Scrubbing? Bera, my heart, I'm an artist, not a maid," Killy said, striking a dramatic pose with the rag.
"Besides, the Cursed Cat's got bigger problems than me—like convincing the village he's not a walking spell."
He winked, dodging her playful swat, his movements quick despite the training curse he carried, a choice he'd made years ago under Shaman N'Nazmuz's eerie chants.
The tavern door swung open, and Marko, Opeka's wiry blacksmith, sauntered in, his apron smudged with soot and his grin sharper than a freshly forged blade.
"Village kids were chanting 'Cursed Cat' at Janko's barn again," he said, sliding onto a stool.
"Old Lady Mirna's telling everyone it's your fault, Killy. Says only a spiritual stone could break the 'dark magic' on Janko's face." He chuckled, sipping an ale Killy slid his way. Spiritual stones—rare, glowing gems hoarded by Opeka's elite like Goran or the headwoman—were more myth than reality in this dusty speck of Aeneria, but Mirna's rumors were spreading faster than Killy's pranks.
"Dark magic? Just paint and genius," Killy said, polishing a tankard with a flourish.
"But I'll take the credit. Keeps Opeka lively." He knew Janko was plotting, though.
A tavern regular had whispered that the big man, still sporting faint black whiskers, was scheming to ruin Killy's prized new books—those leather-bound treasures he'd bought from the traveling merchant.
Janko's plan? Sneak into the tavern's loft, where Killy stashed his books, and douse them with rancid pig fat from the butcher's. Crude, messy, and very Janko.
But Killy, sharper than a fox and twice as sly, was ready to flip the script.That afternoon, while Janko thought he was being sneaky, Killy rigged the loft.
He swapped his book stack with a pile of old ledgers Goran never checked, then tied a bucket of diluted ale—stinky but harmless—to a rope above the loft's trapdoor.
When Janko, lumbering and smug, crept up and opened the trapdoor, the bucket tipped, drenching him in a sour wave that soaked his shirt and clung to his whiskers.
Killy, hidden behind a barrel below, couldn't hold back his cackle as Janko flailed, slipping on the wet ladder and crashing to the tavern floor with a thud that shook the rafters. The few patrons present roared with laughter, Marko nearly choking on his ale.
"Cursed Cat's gone for a swim!" Killy crowed, popping up from his hiding spot.
"Janko, you smell like a brewery's bad day!" Janko, sopping and red-faced, lunged, but Killy danced away, his training-honed agility making the dodge easy.
"Careful, kitty, you'll scare the mice with that stench!"Bera, drawn by the noise, snorted so hard she dropped a tray of bread.
"Killy, you're gonna get yourself killed one day," she said, but her grin betrayed her amusement. Janko, dripping and muttering curses, stomped out, leaving a trail of ale and wounded pride.
The tavern buzzed with the story, and by evening, the kids in the square were chanting "Cursed Cat, Cursed Cat, fell in a vat!" as grandmothers like Mirna added "bewitched ale" to their tales.
Goran, unimpressed by the chaos, hauled Killy out to the field for training. "You're not dodging work with your pranks," he growled, tossing Killy a wooden practice sword. "Wind's Rebuke, again. Get it right, or I'll make you scrub Janko's barn." The Storm Technique, built for Killy's curse, used its weight as an anchor for powerful strikes.
Killy, still buzzing from his prank win, swung with gusto, his braid swinging as he pivoted. But his enthusiasm got the better of him—mid-spin, he misjudged the curse's pull, overshot his arc, and clipped a low branch, sending a shower of leaves and a very angry squirrel onto his head.
The squirrel, chattering like a tiny critic, scampered off as Killy flailed, his sword stuck in the dirt.
"Supreme Elf, my arse," Goran muttered, yanking the sword free.
"Focus, or you'll be fighting squirrels, not foes." Killy, leaves in his braid and pride dented, grinned sheepishly and tried again. By dusk, his strikes were cleaner, the blade whistling as he leaned into the curse's weight, landing a solid hit that earned a grudging nod from Goran.
"Not awful," the old warrior said. "Keep at it."As the sun dipped, painting the sky in shades of crimson, Killy trudged back to the tavern, sore but smug.
The village square was alive with chatter—kids chanting their new "Cursed Cat" rhyme, Mirna and her grandmother posse spinning tales of Killy's "magic" pranks, some even whispering about spiritual stones as if Killy had one hidden in his pocket.
Marko, hammering a horseshoe at his forge nearby, called out, "Nice one, Supreme Elf! Next time, dunk Janko in honey!" Killy waved, his grin as bright as his barn paint. Another day in Opeka, another prank turned legend.