Killyaen staggered into the village hall at dawn, looking like he'd skinny-dipped in a Gromble rendering vat and wrestled a moozze orgy.
His tunic was a shredded disaster, caked with Zenoite Krovar ichor and moozze guts, his gold-tipped braid dripping Gromble oil like a tavern mop. A gash on his thigh screamed with every step, a burn across his ribs felt like a Zeltar kicked him, and a grazed arm oozed under a rag tied so poorly it mocked bandages everywhere. Shaman N'Nazmuz's curse, its thirty-kilogram weight crushing his bones, made him lurch like a drunk Iklos, but his gold-flecked eyes blazed with lunatic pride.
A reeking sack slung over his shoulder bulged with Krovar scales—jagged, mirror-like chunks—and squirming moozze tails, nabbed for Marko's creepy forge obsession. In his pocket, a blue-glowing shard, coin-sized, pulsed with whispers of Azurion's Scale and the First Altar, fueling Killy's qi-soaked dreams.
The hall hummed with the Master headwoman's earth charms, their glow scrawling runes across her robes. Her glare pinned Killy like a Flaevyn in a gale, guards flanking her with spears glinting like they wanted in on the chaos. Villagers peeked through the doors, whispering about the "Supreme Elf's" latest lunacy.
The headwoman's voice sliced like a rusty blade. "Killyaen, you're alive. Barely. The mine?"
"Cleared, ma'am!" Killy crowed, dropping the sack with a wet squelch, sending a moozze tail skittering across the floor like a drunk worm. He winced, ribs howling.
"Stinking Blind Moozzes? Sliced into soup. And a Zenoite Krovar—Peak Warrior, bigger than Goran's beer gut, claws like Marko's shoddiest nails.
I owned it—Supreme Elf style!" He kicked the sack, a Krovar scale clattering out, glinting like a broken mirror. "Got loot, too—scales for the forge, moozze tails for Marko's weird beard braids or whatever."
The headwoman's nose curled as the sack's stench hit, like a Gromble fart at a wedding. "A Peak Warrior beast, and you, a qi-less fool, beat it?" She eyed the sack, where a moozze tail twitched like it was flirting with her boots. "How?"
Killy grinned, leaning forward despite his thigh's protests. "Gromble oil, ma'am, slicker than Janko's Cursed Cat pickup lines. Doused that beast, made it skate like a Zeltar on festival ice. Sparked Zenoite qi—boom!—like a mage who drank Bera's worst stew. Dropped a boulder bigger than Mirna's spiritual stone hoards and rode that Krovar like a iklos with an itch, screaming my own ballad!"
The guards choked on laughs, one dropping his spear with a clang, muttering, "Cursed Cat's uncle!" Another guard lunged for the runaway moozze tail, slipped, and crashed into a chair, cursing as villagers cackled.
The headwoman's lips twitched, her fury crumbling like stale bread. "You're a plague," she said, stifling a snort.
"What's that glowing in your pocket?"Killy fished out the shard, its blue light splashing across the hall like a drunk painter's fever dream.
"Found this in the mine, ma'am. Glows like Azurion's sweaty scales. First Altar stuff? They say one's near Solarija, waking qi in hopeless cases like me. Know anything?"
Her face hardened, earth charms flaring like tiny quakes. "That's no toy, boy. Zenoite mines hold ancient qi, fragments of Aeneria's soul. Could be a Scale of Azurion—dangerous, tied to Dragon-Gods.
First Altars are half-myth, guarded by sects older than Solarija's walls. Hide it, or you'll draw worse than moozzes." She waved him off, voice sharp but rattled. "Go. No more chaos, or I'll make you scrub the mine with your oily braid."
Killy pocketed the shard, grinning like he'd swiped Bera's best apron. "No promises, ma'am."
He grabbed the sack, a moozze tail sticking to a guard's boot, who yelped and shook it off like it was cursed. Killy sauntered out, whistling "Cursed Cat" so loud it echoed, villagers muttering, "He'll doom us all," their grins betraying them.
By evening, the Black Stone Tavern was a madhouse, stuffed with farmers, weavers, and travelers, tankards clashing like a blacksmith's tantrum. Killy, patched up but reeking worse than a Gromble rendering pit, stood on a table, braid swinging, injuries flaunted like battle flags. His thigh ached, ribs burned like a bad stew, and arm stung like a rejected lover, but the curse's healing kept him upright—barely.
Bera leaned on the bar, twirling her spoon like a seductress with a blade, her smirk promising trouble.
Marko, soot-streaked, clutched an ale, eyeing the sack Killy had dumped, moozze tails spilling like a prank gone wrong. Goran, nursing a tankard, glowered but stayed put. Janko, the Cursed Cat, sulked in a corner, his scowl sharper than a Korath horn.
"Gather 'round, Opeka!" Killy roared, waving a "borrowed" tankard, ale sloshing onto his boots and a weaver's hat, who yelped like a Flaevyn in a storm. "The Supreme Elf's got a tale to make your pants dance!"
He kicked the sack, a Krovar scale skidding under Janko's table, glinting like a taunt. "In the Zenoite mine, I faced a Zenoite Krovar—Peak Warrior, uglier than Janko's mirror, claws like Bera's spoon when she's caught me sniffing her stew!"
The crowd hooted, Bera snorting so hard her spoon clattered. "Oi, elf," she purred, leaning forward, her apron tight, "my spoon's been in tastier pots than your greasy backside, and it's still got more action!"
Killy clutched his heart, staggering, ribs screaming. "Bera, darling, your spoon's curves make my blades jealous, but my backside's ready to stir your pot any day!"
The tavern exploded, farmers howling, a weaver choking on his ale, spraying it across Marko's tunic.
Killy spun his tale, arms flailing like a Zeltar drunk on festival grain. "Knee-deep in moozze guts, swords singing, I drowned that beast in Gromble oil—slipperier than Janko's dreams of charm! It skated like Goran trying to flirt!" Goran grunted, tankard sloshing, but his mouth twitched.
Killy leapt onto a barrel, nearly toppling into a farmer's lap as his thigh buckled. "Sparked Zenoite qi—boom!—like a mage who drank Bera's spiciest brew! Dropped a boulder bigger than Mirna's spiritual stone rants and rode that Krovar like a Korath chasing a mate, screaming, 'Bow to the Supreme Elf!'" He waggled his hips, mimicking the ride, ale splashing everywhere.
The tavern roared, tankards banging, a farmer tumbling off his stool, cackling, his hat now a soggy mess. Killy yanked a moozze tail from the sack, waving it like a lover's scarf.
"Marko, your trophy! Shall I braid it into your beard or slip it into Janko's bed?" Marko roared, snatching the tail. "Forge it into Bera's next spoon, elf, for her 'tasty pots'!"
Janko's face went purple, but Goran's glare kept him pinned. Killy launched into a new "Cursed Cat" verse: "Oh, the Krovar slipped, all greased and screwed, while the Supreme Elf danced in the stinking mood!" Patrons joined, sloshing ale, a weaver tossing a bread roll that bounced off Killy's head. Bera flung a rag, purring, "Scrub that oil off, you filthy moozze, or I'll spank you with my spoon!" Killy winked, dodging. "Promise, Broom Queen? I'm free tonight!"
As the tavern emptied, patrons stumbling into the night, singing Killy's ballad off-key, Killy slumped on a bench, the blue shard heavy in his pocket. Old Lady Mirna, lurking like a bad smell, muttered about "cursed gems" and "beast orgies," but Killy ignored her, nursing his aches.
The fire crackled, and Goran, unusually quiet, jerked his head toward the tavern roof. "Up, elf. We're talking."Killy blinked, dragging his battered body up the ladder, the curse making each rung a war.
On the roof, under Aeneria's star-strewn sky, Goran sat, his beard a shadow, tankard in hand. His eyes, usually hard as Zenoite, softened. "You did good, kid," he rumbled. "That Krovar? Most would've run. Not you."
Killy, sprawled on the shingles, ribs throbbing, stared. Goran, proud? "Uh, thanks, big guy. Didn't know you had a heart under that beard."
Goran snorted, sipping his ale, then launched into a tale that made Killy's jaw drop. "Back in my day, I wasn't just Opeka's drunk. I ran with the Destroyers, elite fighters under Solarija's banner. Fought in the Ork Wars—blades against tusks, qi against bloodlust. I was young, dumb, like you, carving my name in the Arena of Immortals. Seven wins, kid—blood, steel, beasts, and men who'd make that Krovar look like a moozze pup."Killy's eyes bulged, nearly rolling off the roof. Goran, a Destroyer? Arena legend?
"Why the hell didn't you tell me this?" he blurted, flailing. Goran chuckled, a gravelly rumble. "You were too busy painting barns and sniffing Bera's apron. But tonight, you reminded me of me—reckless, clever, too stupid to die." He paused, staring at the stars, voice heavy. "There's more, kid. Altars, sects, wars. Things you'll need to know."Killy waited, heart pounding, but Goran clammed up, sipping his ale. "What things?"
Killy pressed, but Goran grunted, "Later." Killy clutched the shard, its glow warm against his fingers, and stared at the sky, stunned. The Supreme Elf, for once, was speechless.