|Championed by the Hero:||HoneyStar|
|Guild Position:||Grand Master|
Blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah
Kokocrunch is a breakfast cereal. So are honey stars. The ability to colourise fresh milk more rapidly ensured Kokocrunch’s position as the god, while Honeystar was cast the role of the mortal. The creator of them both would like to say he did it to bring colour to this world. But actually he had been simply seeking a means of procrastination a week before his major examinations.
I promise I’ll come up with something after they’re over. :)
- 02:11 What happened? Where am I? Is this a temple? How did I get here?
- 02:12 I think I get it now. I have the great honor of being chosen for an inscrutable purpose by a supreme being. Thank you, my Lord. I will not let you down!
Joseph mumbled out his written words as he finished scribbling, unaware I was next to him. I grinned and gave him a quick shove off his seat before sprinting off. Whenever a hero or heroine – Joseph, Emma, Rachmaninoff, all my childhood friends – got called into duty, they had experienced the same thing. We all grew up in town godville, where becoming a hero was equivalent to becoming a star there. Which had a lot of stars, in fact. Burning rather dimly.
This was what we were taught since young. The to-and-fro traveling ‘stars’, the out-of-bound taverns, the temples numbering a hundred and thirty-seven as of today, the Heroic University; we stood in awe of them for eighteen years of our lives. Then we joined the few thousand freshmen in the university, striving toward graduation and ultimately, induction of the heroic status.
"HoneyStar! Get back here!" Joseph yelled, but my lead was significant. Yet he still gave chase. He'd never catch me and he knew it. Especially since he was probably still dazed having woken up in the Main Temple after he slipped into unconsciousness, meeting his god for the first time. Hell, everyone went through the same thing. As I risked a glance back, I caught sight of Joseph crashing into a group of bald temple ushers, flanked in simple robes. They pressed their palms together, and being paid and trained to usher new heroes, spoke a few words of reassurance to him.
Joseph feverishly penned his diary again after they left.
- 02:15 Four wise monks said, “It is best to start with the glorification of the Lord through undertakings.” I’d better look around and find something to do in the next few hours.
Such is the call into duty. A personal god’s ordainment of inexperienced sword-fodder into heroic material. Our lives seem to be directed by quests from then on. Not that anyone's complaining! To fulfill our purpose in the world of Godville, we must become a hero, quest in the name of our lord or lady, and eventually build a temple. Such a mindset is abundant in those born in godville.
Me? Naw, I was bred in godville. Not born.
By Hammer and Hand Do All Things Stand
Anville, the capital of forgery. Twelve years back.
An nine year old boy stands over his mom’s body, sobbing. He methodically massages her limbs, rubs her temples, and checks her pulse. But there is no pulse, and her limbs are getting cold. It’s time to go.
HoneyStar remembered his last conversation with his mom.
“Don’t go, mom. Wait till I melt the last bit of steel into the iron shield I made for you…’
“You’re nine, dear. Don’t get too engrossed with smithing. If I gotta go, I gotta go... and you gotta go to mommy’s hometown, alright?”
A brief nod into space at the memory.
“Know why I called you HoneyStar? Your dad used to say, ‘Honey, you’re my star…’ Ha, ha. Maybe he’s really gone, and I can join him now,” she was coughing badly. Really badly. Then she went.
Trudging across a small stream, HoneyStar picked up blemished gemstones, used for decoration, at the foot of yet another community anvil. His dad hadn’t been around since before his birth.
According to mom, they had met as newcomers to an alley for the homeless, for his dad was an injured, outcast blacksmith from a minor union war, while mom was too poor for any taverns or inns after the long trip to anville. They checked themselves in at an abandoned warehouse to recuperate for three nights. She said that the first night, they were just sitting against the walls, weary from exhaustion. The second night they were standing. And the third night, he ran away.
His dad must have been really talented, HoneyStar would always think, to explain his uncanny skill at metalsmithing. Mom had stayed in anville when she knew she was with child and raised him up in its culture, which he had embraced with his gifts. Unfortunately, the envious boys in the neighbourhood had taken to abusing his name in their jealousy. As in the world of the gods, Nestle Honey Stars was a honey-coated cereal, made with the goodness of whole grain and provided eight minerals, plus iron and calcium. HoneyStar thus suffered many a blow to his dignity during his childhood days.
Still, childish and weak as his name might sound, he would have to depend on himself for the journey ahead to godville. He had an abundant supply of self-forged gadgets, and some connections with the traveling merchants. He would pay his way well with his craft.
Three Hundred & Fifty Milestones: MS #350
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