Killyaen, self-proclaimed Supreme Elf and Opeka's chaos gremlin, stood in the Black Stone Tavern, his pack ready for the month-long trek to Adena.
Outside, a Zorath, a sleek beast with shimmering scales, hooves like hammers, and a temper to match, snorted, saddled for the ride. Killy's sack of Zenoite Krovar scales and moozze tails reeked by the bar, earning glares from patrons and a smirk from Bera.
The tavern buzzed with midday chatter, farmers and weavers toasting the Supreme Elf's departure.
Marko, soot-streaked, clapped Killy's shoulder, nearly toppling him. "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. Killy caught it, winking. "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." Killy waved a moozze tail, grinning. "Cursed Cat, my blade's bigger than your whiskers—Bera can vouch!" The crowd howled, Bera snorting, her spoon twirling like a duelist.
Bera dodged Killy 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, ribs screaming.
"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 moozze to hump in Adena."
Her wink was pure sin, and Killy 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.
At closing, the tavern empty, Bera ambushed Killy by the hearth, her eyes wicked. "Think you're leaving without a taste?" she purred, pinning him to the wall, spoon clattering. Killy'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, Killy's injuries forgotten. At dawn, she swatted his backside, smirking. "Don't expect that in Adena, you stinking Gromble. Come back alive." Killy limped out, winking. "For your pot, love, I'll slay sects."
By midday, Killy readied his Zorath in Opeka's square, packing Krovar scales. Goran waited at their training field, blades drawn. "Last spar, elf," he growled. Killy drew his twin swords, curse dragging his steps. They clashed, Wind's Rebuke meeting Goran's strikes, Thunder's Edge weaving past his guard. Killy's freakish strength pushed Goran back, but the Destroyer's skill landed a bruise on his shoulder.
"Too slow," Goran grunted, eyes proud. Killy panted, ribs burning. "Give me a year, and I'll shave your beard!"
Goran sheathed his blade, tossing Killy 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." Killy slipped it on, amazed as it swallowed his boots. Goran handed him a black dagger, its Teridian steel gleaming like a void. "My royal dagger from the Ork Wars. Show it to Brakus in Adena. Ask if he's still making love with his weapons", he said with a smirk. Killy clutched it, stunned.
"This? You're making me blush!" Goran swatted him, chuckling. "Don't lose it, fool."
As sunset bled gold over the hills, Killy gathered Opeka's dearest—Bera, Marko, Mirna, Janko, village Elder,kids, everyone dearest—in the square for farewells and his grandest prank.
Everyone braced for a Cursed Cat roast, but Killy turned to Goran, grinning like a moozze with a stolen feast.
Overnight, he'd built a colossal wooden shrine in the training field—Goran's bearded face carved sky-high, tankard belching fire, clutching a tiny Killy figure with a monstrous "sword" swinging low, dwarfing Goran's pitiful twig. Painted in glowing Zenoite: "Goran, Father of the Supreme Elf, Drunk of Legends" and "My sword's bigger than yours, you old drunk!" Rigs sprayed Gromble oil clouds, but Killy added chaos: hidden forge drums boomed like thunder, the statue's eyes flashed with stolen Zenoite sparks, and it farted moozze-scented smoke that choked the village. "For every bruise, old man!"
Killy crowed, dodging a tankard.The crowd lost it, Bera laughing so hard her spoon fell, Marko choking on air. Goran, oil-soaked and smoke-wreathed, roared, "You Iklos bastard!" but tears cut his beard.
The shrine—Killy's swagger carved eternal—hit hard, memories flashing: finding Killy in the forest, teaching him blades, watching him rise. Janko, wiping tears, wailed, "Impossible! He skipped me?" He sobbed, half laughing, half thrilled. "That idiot's gone! My days'll be quiet!"
Killy mounted his Zorath, waving, but as he rode off, he yelled, "Cursed Cat, I didn't forget you!" The sun's last rays faded, and Janko's whiskers blazed like twin suns, dusted with Zenoite powder from his cloak. His house and barn ignited in neon glory, glowing like a second dawn, a sign blazing: "Here Sleeps the Supreme Elf's Bitch." From Marko's forge, a swarm of moozzes, 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.
The village 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.Killy 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. Goran, tears streaking his oil-soaked beard, watched the Zorath vanish, Killy's legend etched into Aeneria's soul.