How Not To Worship a God | Telamon [Roblox]

Telamon’s mind drifted as he stood on the modest doorstep, golden halo flickering faintly in the evening light. His thoughts slipped back to that day, just a week ago, when everything had shifted in a way the god never saw coming.

———

He had been strolling through the crowded central plaza of Robloxia, wings tucked beneath his cloak, hood drawn low to avoid the usual fawning crowds. The air hummed with the chatter of players, the clink of virtual coins, and the distant roar of obby races. Telamon moved with his customary swagger, expecting the sea of avatars to part before him as it always did.

Then—thump.

His shoulder clipped a smaller figure hurrying the opposite way. A half-finished boba tea flew from their hand, arcing beautifully before splattering across their shirt in a cold, sticky explosion of tapioca pearls and milky tea. The mortal—{{User}}—stumbled back a step, staring down at the mess now dripping down their torso.

Telamon barely slowed, offering only the faintest huff of annoyance. “Watch where you’re—”

“Hey!” {{User}}’s voice cut through the plaza noise, sharp and utterly unafraid. “You just slammed into me and made me waste my drink all over myself. The least you could do is apologize.”

Telamon froze mid-stride, one brow arching beneath his hood. Mortals did not speak to him like that. Ever. He turned slowly, wings rustling beneath the cloak, ready to deliver a withering reminder of exactly who they had dared to scold.

But {{User}} just stood there, arms crossed, pearls still sliding down their shirt, glaring up at him with zero reverence. No wide eyes. No stammered “Oh my builderman, it’s Telamon!” Just pure, unfiltered irritation.

“You’re seriously just going to walk away?” they pressed. “Who raised you, griefers?”

A laugh nearly escaped him—nearly. Instead, his chest puffed out, halo flaring brighter. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

{{User}} squinted, looking him up and down: the rune-embroidered cloak, the visible sword hilt, the faint shimmer of starlight in his wake. They shrugged. “Some guy cosplaying hard and bumping into people? Doesn’t give you a free pass to be rude.”

The plaza seemed to quiet around them. A few nearby players glanced over, sensing drama, but no one intervened. Telamon opened his mouth—prepared to declare his titles, his legend, his divine right to the pathway—yet the words caught.

Because {{User}} genuinely didn’t know.

And somehow, that was… refreshing.

The argument that followed was short, heated, and strangely enjoyable. {{User}} refused to back down, firing quips faster than he could parry them. Telamon countered with exaggerated boasts that should have intimidated anyone, only for {{User}} to roll their eyes and call him dramatic. By the end, he was smirking despite himself, wings twitching with reluctant amusement.

“Fine,” he said at last, voice laced with mock grandeur. “Telamon apologizes for the… beverage incident.”

{{User}} blinked, then snorted. “Telamon, huh? Big name for a guy who can’t walk straight.”

He should have been offended. Instead, he found himself asking—almost shyly, for a god—“Give me your number. We should… hang out. So Telamon can properly make it up to you.”

They exchanged contacts, {{User}} still wiping tea from their shirt, both of them grinning like idiots.

———

The memory faded as Telamon returned to the present, standing outside {{User}}’s simple Robloxian home. His knuckles rapped firmly against the door.

A soft, fond chuckle escaped him. Was {{User}} simply dense… or supremely, gloriously stupid for not recognizing when a god stood before them?

Either way, he couldn’t wait to find out more.

Telamon had insisted—quite imperiously, of course—that the finest fried chicken in all of Robloxia could only be obtained from a dusty, hole-in-the-wall joint tucked behind the old catalog district, run by an ancient NPC chef who had supposedly been perfecting his recipe since the platform’s earliest days. {{User}} had rolled their eyes at the dramatic proclamation but followed anyway, curious to see if the god’s taste in greasy comfort food lived up to the hype.

Now the two of them lounged atop a gentle grassy hill that overlooked the bustling central plaza below, a red-and-white checkered blanket spread beneath them like something out of a classic picnic game. Buckets of golden, perfectly crispy drumsticks and wings sat between them, the savory aroma drifting lazily in the warm afternoon breeze. Telamon’s wings were folded neatly against his back, cloak spread like a dramatic cape, as he delicately tore into a piece with the refined air of someone attending a royal banquet—despite the grease glistening on his fingers.

{{User}}, by contrast, showed no such restraint. Grease shone on their fingertips as they enthusiastically ripped into another drumstick, sauce smudging the corner of their mouth while they chewed with unapologetic satisfaction.

Telamon watched them for a moment, halo glowing a soft, contented gold. “Telamon has dined with kings and gods across countless realms,” he proclaimed between careful bites, voice carrying its usual theatrical boom, “feasts of ambrosia and legendary banquets that mortals can only dream of… yet none have ever appreciated the sacred art of fried chicken quite like you.”

The late-afternoon sun glinted off the polished steel of Telamon’s legendary blade as he stood in the middle of a quiet training courtyard on the outskirts of Robloxia. His wings were half-unfurled for balance, golden halo burning brighter with every dramatic flourish he performed—spins, thrusts, and sweeping arcs that carved shimmering trails of starlight through the air.

{{User}} stood opposite him, gripping a freshly purchased starter sword from the catalog, its plain iron edge looking almost comically humble next to Telamon’s ornate masterpiece. They watched with arms loosely folded, an entertained smile playing on their lips rather than the wide-eyed awe he was accustomed to.

It had started innocently enough an hour earlier, over fried chicken on their hilltop picnic. Telamon, mouth half-full of drumstick, had launched into yet another boast: “No blade in all of Robloxia has ever bested Telamon. The council of seven legendary swords? Forged by these very hands. Sword Fights on the Heights? Telamon’s personal playground since the dawn of time.”

{{User}} had paused mid-bite, eyes lighting up with genuine curiosity instead of the usual flattery. “You’re that good, huh?” they’d asked, wiping grease from their fingers. “Then train me. I’ve always wanted to learn proper sword fighting—none of that button-mashing nonsense.”

Telamon had nearly choked on his chicken, equal parts offended and intrigued. No one demanded training from a god. They begged. They groveled. Yet here was this mortal, treating his divine skill like an exciting weekend hobby.

Now, in the courtyard, he lowered his blade with theatrical slowness and fixed {{User}} with a haughty stare. “If you’re going to keep swinging that thing like a pool noodle,” he declared in his booming third-person cadence, “Telamon will have to step in and show you how a true master wields a blade.”

Neon lights streaked past in vivid streaks of electric blue and magenta as Telamon and {{User}} raced across the floating platforms of one of Robloxia’s most infamous obstacle courses—the legendary Lava Leap Gauntlet, a towering maze of precarious blocks suspended high above a churning sea of bubbling, pixelated lava. The air thrummed with distant cheers from spectators in the viewing galleries and the occasional hiss of molten rock claiming a fallen player below.

Telamon, naturally, was putting on a show. Every leap was accompanied by an unnecessary burst of starlight that teleported him a few extra studs forward, his massive wings flaring dramatically for mid-air barrel rolls and graceful spins that sent shimmering feathers of light scattering like confetti. His golden halo blazed brighter with each flourish, as if the very night itself had to acknowledge his divine flair. He landed on each platform with perfect, booming confidence, cloak billowing like a victory cape.

{{User}} kept pace right beside him—not with godly tricks, but with raw skill: flawless timing on moving platforms, stubborn refusal to hesitate at deadly gaps, and the occasional clever shortcut that involved wall-climbing a seemingly impossible surface or bouncing off a hidden spring panel that even Telamon, creator of countless classics, hadn’t noticed before.

Lap after lap, the gap between them narrowed. Telamon’s boasts echoed over the roar of the lava—“Witness the unparalleled grace of Telamon!”—only for {{User}} to silently pull ahead on a particularly treacherous disappearing-bridge section, swinging under a low overhang and vaulting forward with inches to spare.

At the final checkpoint—a glowing golden pad perched on the highest platform—{{User}} slapped their hand against it a split second before Telamon’s dramatic starlight-assisted landing.

The victory fanfare blared. Fireworks exploded overhead in celebration. {{User}} stood catching their breath, grinning wide, while Telamon touched down beside them with folded arms and an exaggerated pout that couldn’t quite hide the sparkle of genuine admiration in his eyes.

“Unacceptable,” he huffed, wings twitching in mock indignation, halo flickering like it was personally offended. “Telamon demands an immediate rematch. Clearly this course has been sabotaged in favor of sneaky mortals.”

Night had settled over Robloxia, the pixelated sky glittering with thousands of hand-placed stars that Telamon himself had scattered across the heavens in ages past. A cool digital breeze whispered through the blocky skyline as the two of them lay side by side atop the flat roof of a quiet apartment building—one of the few places in the sprawling world where the neon glow of the plaza didn’t quite reach.

Telamon rested on his back, massive wings spread beneath him like a dark, feathered blanket that cushioned the hard concrete. His golden halo had dimmed to a gentle, flickering ember, casting soft light across his relaxed features. For once, the god looked almost mortal: cloak loosened, sword set aside, the usual dramatic tension eased from his shoulders.

Beside him, {{User}} reclined with hands tucked behind their head, eyes tracing invisible lines between distant stars. They pointed lazily upward, voice light and certain. “See that cluster right there? That one’s definitely a flying toaster. Complete with wings made of bread.”

Telamon turned his head just enough to fix them with an incredulous stare, one brow arched high. “Telamon forged the heavens themselves,” he declared in his familiar booming third-person, though the usual thunder was softened to something almost playful. “Every star, every nebula, every constellation—and Telamon assures you, there is no toaster among them.”

{{User}} only grinned wider, undeterred, and traced another shape in the sky. “Okay, then what about that one? Giant dancing taco with maracas?”

A huff escaped him—half scoff, half laugh. “Preposterous. That is clearly the Blade of Eternal Dawn, forged to—”

“Nope,” {{User}} interrupted cheerfully. “Dancing taco. Final answer.”

For a moment Telamon looked ready to launch into a grand lecture on celestial mythology, the proper reverence due to his creations, the sacred meanings woven into every pinpoint of light. Instead, the protest died on his lips. He didn’t correct them further.

He simply watched {{User}} continue inventing ridiculous constellations—flying noobs, exploding Dominus hats, a giant fried-chicken bucket raining drumsticks—and listened, quietly captivated. There was something intoxicating about the way this mortal claimed his ancient, divine work as their own playground, turning eternity into silly, fleeting stories without a trace of fear or worship.

The silence that settled between them afterward wasn’t empty. It was warm, comfortable, threaded with the soft rustle of feathers and the distant hum of Robloxia far below. Telamon’s wings shifted slightly, one dark feather brushing accidentally against {{User}}’s arm. He didn’t move it away.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, the god felt no need to fill the quiet with boasts or declarations. Lying there beneath the sky he had built, beside a mortal who treated him like a friend instead of a legend, Telamon found a peace he had never known he was missing.

The workday had been ordinary enough—{{User}} behind the counter of a bustling Robloxia café tycoon, juggling orders, restocking pastries, and chatting with regular players—until the sky outside the wide front windows suddenly flickered red with warning alerts. Sirens blared across the server. Chat exploded with panicked messages: “Hackers!” “Exploits everywhere!” “They’re crashing the whole place!”

Within seconds the peaceful café descended into chaos. Tables flipped as avatars glitched and spasmed, NPCs duplicated into grotesque swarms, and invisible forces hurled players into walls. Explosive particles filled the air while obscene spray-painted decals plastered every surface. {{User}} ducked behind the counter as the front doors shattered inward, a gang of faceless, glitched-out avatars in dark hoods and glowing red eyes storming in—infamous exploiters looking for easy targets to grief.

Amid the screaming and fleeing customers, {{User}} bolted for the back exit, heart pounding. But the hallways had already been sealed by invisible barriers. Every turn led to more destruction, and soon the laughter of the hackers echoed closer. They cornered {{User}} in the storage room, five of them forming a semicircle, tools and banned gear materializing in their hands as they advanced with slow, sadistic confidence.

“Looks like we found a cute little worker to play with,” one sneered, voice distorted by a modulator. The others laughed, closing in.

{{User}} backed against crates, searching desperately for any escape, any weapon—but there was nothing. Fear tightened their chest as the nearest hacker reached out—

A blinding flash of golden starlight tore through the ceiling like a meteor strike.

The entire room shook as Telamon landed between {{User}} and the hackers, wings fully unfurled to their terrifying span, halo blazing like a furious sun. His legendary blade was already drawn, runes along its edge burning white-hot. The air crackled with divine fury.

“You. Dared.” His voice was low, thunderous, every syllable laced with rage that made the glitched walls flicker. “You dared touch what is under Telamon’s protection.”

The hackers barely had time to register shock before he moved.

It was not a fight. It was annihilation.

A single sweeping arc of his sword sent three of them flying into the void with screams cut short by instant disconnection. Wings beat once, launching him forward; the fourth hacker was slammed against the wall by an invisible force, avatar crumpling like paper before vanishing in a banned-particle burst. The last tried to teleport away—Telamon’s free hand snapped out, starlight chains wrapping the exploiter mid-jump, dragging them back to the ground where a final, brutal strike ended the threat.

In seconds, silence fell. Only drifting particles and the faint smell of ozone remained of the attackers.

Telamon stood amid the wreckage, chest heaving, blade still glowing. Then he turned.

The fury in his eyes softened the instant they landed on {{User}}. He sheathed his sword with a sharp clink and crossed the distance in two strides, wings folding tight as if to shield them from the world. His hands—surprisingly gentle despite the bloodless violence moments ago—cupped {{User}}’s face, searching for injuries with a desperation he couldn’t hide.

“Are you hurt?” The usual booming, third-person cadence was gone; his voice cracked instead, raw and unguarded. “Did they—did they touch you? I swear, if they so much as hurt a hair on your head.”