The blacksmith looked up and glanced at her gratefully.
"You told me the beautiful myths of the moon, so as a token of gratitude—I've heard a story during the long years."
Granny Baba Yaga said patiently:
"In the myths, countless deities dwell in the starry sky, endlessly battling the monsters that devour stars."
"These warriors are cast down to the mortal realm time and again, sometimes even relegated to mundane things like humans, mice, trees, or cars—the most ordinary of things."
"But no matter how many times they are struck down, they always find a way to reforge their divine bodies, ascend the ladder to the starry sky, and thus, their mythic tales are continuously sung upon the earth."
"No matter how many times the deities fall to the lower world, child, that's not what's important; what matters is whether your myth can continue to be told."
Granny Baba Yaga's words left the blacksmith slightly stunned.
