I stand before the Chronicler as he lay on the hard stone surface just inside the entrance of his cave - which shall soon be mine. I look down on my teacher, who has been asleep now for a few hours, after spending several more by going through the most important parts of our history, folklore, myths, legends, stories, over and over and over again until he was secure in the knowledge that I would hold within me all the knowledge he and the generations before him had amassed. I wish, looking at his frail, sleeping body, that I had his certainty on that, even...
As I let my eyes wander along his sleeping body, immersed in my thoughts, he slowly opens his eyes, raising his left hand towards me. Without thinking, I grab it, looking into his eyes. He squeezes my hand in response and, after taking a long, deep breath, opens his mouth and talks to me one final time:
"My pupil, you have learned all the essentials of our history, of our identity, and for that I am proud of you. I regret, though, that your training period had to be so short, but such were the circumstances, as you well know. Nevertheless, hurrying to teach you our history I have had to neglect some lessons which, though at least as important as those I have taught you, are far easier to replace with experience and some little guidance. That guidance I will give you now, my pupil.
You know much of our history, but always remember this: As our history, which is partly just myths and legends in itself, defines who we are, so do our stories define what we might one day be. Being the Chronicler you will not only be responsible for remembering our past, you will also be in part responsible for shaping our future.
As my final legacy to you, I carry in my mind some seeds of stories which I have found too taxing to shape into anything finished. Whether you will use them or not, that is up to you alone. In time, if not already, all the stories, history and myth that you have heard will grow seed of their own within you to form new ones. Do not dismiss these as lightly as you might mine, for more than you define what they are, they define what you are, and through you, what our tribe might be."
That said, the Chronicler reaches up towards my head, which I lower in response. Touching my forehead and my temple gently, he closes his eyes and sends his seed into me, into my field of stories, perhaps to grow and flourish, perhaps to wither and die, but not to go unnoticed. With that final surge of stray visions, concepts and ideas, he sighs, as do I, though his sigh was one of relief as opposed to mine, which was a sigh of great burden being shifted to my shoulders. Then he is gone.