Opeka came alive once a year for the Harvest Moon Festival, a three-day burst of color and chaos that drowned the village's dusty routine in music, ale, and laughter. Lanterns glowed like fireflies across the cobbled square, stalls brimmed with steaming pies and shiny trinkets, and the Black Stone Tavern thrummed as the village's heart.
Killyaen, self-proclaimed Supreme Elf and Opeka's mischief maestro, wove through the crowd, his grin sparking more trouble than a loose ember.
The village, still buzzing from his "Cursed Cat" pranks—painting Janko's barn to glow and marking him with black whiskers—was primed for whatever the Supreme Elf had planned.
The festival's first day launched with the arm-wrestling tournament, a rowdy tradition that packed the square with burly villagers and a few brave outsiders around a creaky table. Killy, lean but strong from years of training, signed up with a flourish, leaping onto a barrel to address the crowd.
"Behold, the Supreme Elf, here to crush wrists and dreams!" he crowed, flexing to cheers and jeers. Marko, Opeka's wiry blacksmith, sauntered up, cracking his knuckles, his soot-streaked arms rippling."Save the show, Killy," Marko said, grinning. "You'll be crying for your books when I'm done." The villagers roared, tossing coppers in bets as Killy plopped into the chair, turning each match into theater. He winked at opponents, faked a yawn mid-grip, and once "slipped" to juggle a tankard, earning laughs and scowls. His curse, chosen under Shaman N'Nazmuz's chants, gave him stamina to outlast bigger foes, though the effort strained him in the final rounds.Killy tore through the matches, toppling farmers and a miller twice his size, until the final pitted him against Marko.
The square was jammed, lanterns flickering as bets flew. Killy leaned in, sweat beading. "Wager, Marko? Loser walks the village in their underwear for two days." The crowd hooted, and Marko, never backing down, shook on it. "You're gonna regret that, Supreme Elf," he said, gripping Killy's hand.
The match was brutal, table creaking, crowd chanting. Killy's curse-fueled stamina held, but Marko's raw strength won out. With a grunt, Marko slammed Killy's hand down, and the square erupted. Killy leapt up, bowing like a jester. "A deal's a deal!" he shouted, unbuttoning his shirt to cheers and whistles. "The Supreme Elf keeps his word!"For two days, Killy roamed the festival in patched underwear, turning shame into a parade. He danced on barrels, juggled apples, and charmed pie vendors for free slices, working the crowd like a bard.
The festival hummed with games—sack races, pie-eating, a goat-milking race Killy nearly won until the goat kicked him into a hay bale. Old Lady Mirna, clutching her shawl, muttered about spiritual stones to ward off Killy's "shameless magic," but even she smirked when he tossed her a flower.
On the third night, the festival peaked with music and dancing in the square.
Villagers hauled out fiddles, drums, and a wobbly flute, and Killy, still in his underwear, saw his chance. He'd whispered about a grand finale, and now, with a borrowed lute from a tipsy bard, he climbed onto a stage of crates. The crowd hushed as he strummed. "This one's for Opeka," he said, "and our favorite feline hero!"
With a wink, 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 by moonlight on his grumpy face!
He chased the Elf, but fell in a vat,
Now he's the king of the cabbage patch, Cat!"
Villagers joined in, banging pots, drumming barrels, a fiddler picking up the tune. Each verse grew ruder—tales of Janko's floury flop, ale-soaked dive, cabbagey doom. The crowd was in stitches, tears streaming, clutching stomachs.
A farmer doubled over, gasping; a tavern regular howled, "I'm gonna wet meself!"—and some swore he did.
Killy, strutting in his underwear, belted the chorus, his voice ringing over the square.Janko, slunk to the crowd's edge, lasted ten seconds before his face turned purple. With a roar, he shoved through, storming home as the village chanted "Cursed Cat!"
Killy didn't miss a beat, adding a verse: "He flees, he fumes, but he can't outrun,
The Cursed Cat's curse, Opeka's fun!" The square erupted, laughter echoing off the tavern walls, some patrons collapsing in the grass, still giggling.
As the song ended, Killy bowed low, nearly losing his underwear to a gust, earning another wave of cheers. Goran, at the tavern door, shook his head but tossed Killy a cloak. "Cover up, you idiot," he growled, his mouth twitching. Killy wrapped himself, grinning as villagers slapped his back, begging for an encore next year.
Another festival in Opeka, another legend carved. The Supreme Elf, sore, half-naked, and likely due for Janko's wrath, felt he'd conquered the world—or at least one rowdy village.