Opeka's Harvest Moon Festival erupted in a three-day blaze of color, drowning the village's dusty routine in music, ale, and laughter. Lanterns glowed like Aeneria's stars across the cobbled square, stalls brimmed with steaming pies and Zenoite trinkets, the common metal—light as steel—catching Solarija's twilight.
Killyaen, a lean elf-human hybrid of twenty summers, wove through the throng, his black eyes flecked with gold glinting with mischief. His olive skin caught the firelight, his long blond hair, gold-tipped and tied in a gloriously sloppy braid, swaying with each step. His curse, a gift from Shaman N'Nazmuz, pressed thirty kilograms of invisible weight onto his frame, denting the dirt, forging strength beyond men like Janko, yet leaving him qi-less after three failed Altars of Awakening.
While farmers sparked Beginner flames and weavers spun Apprentice wind charms, Killyaen, below Initial Beginner, reigned as "Supreme Elf" through pranks that shook the plains.
Eight years ago, a boyish Killyaen had painted "SUPREME ELF RULES" across Janko's barn in glowing paint, sealing "Cursed Cat" by daubing black whiskers on the man's sleeping face.
Now, he craved a bolder taunt. Nights before the festival, he'd scavenged glowing moss, an Aenerian plant from Opeka's caves, and scaled Janko's barn, slathering its roof with the luminescent goo. As moonlight struck, "SUPREME ELF RULES" blazed anew, a radiant mockery visible to Zenoite miners trudging home.
Killyaen perched on a hay bale, cackling as festival-goers gasped, pointing at the glowing roof. Janko stormed out, roaring, "That cursed elf!" his face red with fury, whiskers long faded but his nickname eternal.
"Cursed Cat's got a new lighthouse!" Killyaen shouted, dodging a hurled shovel. Villagers hooted, traders clapping, as Janko's rage fueled their feud.
The first day roared with the arm-wrestling tournament, packing the square around a creaky table. Killyaen, lean but curse-strong, signed up with a flourish, leaping onto a barrel.
"Behold, the Supreme Elf, crusher of wrists and dreams!" he crowed, flexing to cheers. Marko, the wiry blacksmith, sauntered up, cracking knuckles. "Save the show, Killyaen," he grinned. "You'll cry for your books." Villagers tossed coppers in bets as Killyaen turned matches into theater, winking, faking yawns, juggling a tankard.
His curse-fueled stamina outlasted farmers and a miller twice his size, until the final pitted him against Marko. "Wager?" Killyaen leaned in. "Loser walks the village in their underwear till the festival's end." Marko shook on it. "Regret's coming, Supreme Elf."
The match was brutal, table creaking, crowd chanting. Killyaen's stamina held, but Marko's strength won, slamming his hand down. Killyaen leapt up, bowing. "A deal's a deal!" he shouted, unbuttoning his shirt to whistles. "The Supreme Elf keeps his word!"
That night, Killyaen, now in patched underwear, strutted through the festival, turning shame into spectacle. His gaze snagged on Bera, the Black Stone Tavern's server, whose wit rivaled his quips. She wore a deep green dress, its neckline plunging, fabric clinging to her athletic frame. Her curves, sculpted by hauling trays, her large breasts drew stares, threatening to spill free. Killyaen, master of jests like "big snare," froze, a strange heat stirring—beyond humor, a pull he couldn't name. Bera's auburn hair bounced free, her eyes narrowed with disdain. "What's that gape, clown?" she snapped, brushing past. "Go juggle for the drunks." Killyaen's retort—"Got a bigger stage, lass?"—came weak, his pulse hammering.
As fiddles struck a lively tune, village women paired men for the harvest dance, blessing the Zenoite mines. Killyaen, dodging eager hands in his underwear, caught a glimpse of Marko's smirk. The blacksmith "accidentally" nudged Bera forward, her shove landing her in Killyaen's arms. "Watch it, pest!" she hissed, shoving him off, but the women insisted they dance. Killyaen steadied her, hands on her waist, feeling her heartbeat despite her scowl. "Don't trip, Supreme Fool," she taunted, her voice sharp. Killyaen, voice huskier than intended, grinned. "Supreme Elf's got you, lass," he whispered. The dance began, with their steps stiff but charged, her breasts brushing his bare chest, igniting a fire. As they spun, Killyaen's attraction flared—his sword rose visibly in his underwear, jutting like a defiant blade. Gasps rippled, followed by hoots and jeers.
"Supreme Elf's sword's unsheathed!" a farmer roared, sparking a wave of laughter. Bera's face twisted in disgust, her eyes rolling. "Gods, you're a walking jest," she scoffed, stepping back. Killyaen, undaunted, leaned into the chaos. "Behold, the Supreme Elf's mightiest blade!" he crowed, thrusting his hips in a mock sword-fight stance, waving his "sword" with a swaggering twirl of his braid. He struck a pose, one hand on hip, the other beckoning the crowd like a duelist. "Who dares challenge this glory?" A pie vendor lobbed a crust, which Killyaen caught in his teeth, doubling the crowd's cheers. He twirled Bera again, dipping her low despite her glare, his braid flopping over her face.
"Put that filthy thing away, you ale-soaked fool!" Bera snapped, shoving him off, her voice dripping contempt. "Your pathetic display only is only fit for the tavern floor!"
The crowd howled, a tavern regular choking on ale, another spilling it in his lap. Killyaen, masking his flush with a bow, grinned. "Only for you, Broom Queen!" he jabbed, dodging her swat. Bera's lip curled. "Keep dreaming, elf-wannabe," she spat, storming off, her dress swaying, convinced Killyaen was just a nuisance craving attention.
Onlookers chuckled, whispering about "two idiots" blind to a spark Killyaen felt but Bera dismissed, her taunts cutting sharper than his jests.
For three days, Killyaen roamed in his underwear, turning shame into a parade—dancing on barrels, juggling apples, charming pie vendors for slices. The festival hummed with games—sack races, pie-eating, a Caprid-milking race (the horned grazer kicking him into a hay bale). A stall with polished Iklos horns drew crowds, their spiral curves gleaming. Old Lady Mirna muttered about spiritual stones warding off Killyaen's "shameless magic," smirking when he tossed her a flower.
On the third night, music peaked in the square. Killyaen, still in underwear, borrowed a lute from a tipsy bard and climbed a crate stage. "This one's for Opeka's," he winked, "and our favorite hero!" He launched into "The Ballad of the Cursed Cat," a raucous ode to Janko's woes: "Oh, the Cursed Cat prowls with a whisker's grace, / Painted in moonlight on his grumpy face! / He chased the Elf, but fell in a vat, / Now he's king of the cabbage patch, Cat!" Villagers banged pots, a fiddler joining in, each verse ruder—Janko's floury flop, ale-soaked dive, cabbagey doom.
The crowd roared, tears streaming. Janko slunk to the edge, face purple, storming off as Killyaen added: "He flees, he fumes, but he can't outrun, / The Cursed Cat's curse, Opeka's fun!" Laughter echoed, some collapsing in the grass. Killyaen bowed, nearly losing his underwear, earning cheers. Goran tossed him a cloak. "Cover up, idiot," he growled, mouth twitching.
By a bonfire, Killyaen sprawled with a tattered book, its pages whispering Aeneria's twenty levels—Beginner to God Creator, Initial, Middle, Peak. Three Altars had spurned him, his meridians dormant, but he dreamed of qi, of Dragon-Gods like Azorion. Janko's glowing roof, Bera's taunts, the sword's spectacle, the ballad's triumph—Opeka's festival fueled a fire he couldn't name.