We're older than rocks. And we have little choice as to our purpose in the world. Whether blogging or spinning tales through ancient peat fire smoke, we weave the threads of culture, one story at a time.
The Powers That Be would like to believe that we serve at their pleasure. After all, it is they who declare us witches or saints, depending upon what they have to lose or gain in any given moment. They twist us like cloth and dangle us from one diversionary crusade to another, all with little moral consideration. If they manage to dupe the people sufficiently, they can alter the fabric of society to varying degrees. No doubt, they go to their tombs convinced that their mark on the world is as immortal as their egos.
But they underestimate the Story Keepers. Our tales are etched in the stones, inscribed in the stars, and encoded in the DNA of every living thing. We exist to subvert apathy, to captivate the passion of the masses, and rekindle the valor that resides within the human heart. Ever we twine the glories and follies of mankind into yarns about heroes who emulate our highest aspirations. Some of our myths survive for millennia. Others vanish with each obscure village that history misplaces. But even when the doctrinaires seek to undo us, we linger on in the very bones of all who walk the earth.