Fierce torches blazed in the ceremony hall, casting dancing shadows across the spacious room. The stone and clay walls were lined with crystal boxes, each engraved with intricate swirling patterns. Stationed within them, hundreds of Nova Flies flickered on and off irregularly, giving off an eerie and mysterious golden glow. The hymn sung by elderly Humans and Blood sounded coarse, yet dignified. They stood at the back of the stage, draped in maroon ceremonious regalia embroidered with black winding designs.

The Blood were a race of beings diverse in height, shape, and shades of metallic chrome. Their unique beast-like features genuinely set them apart: mammalian, reptilian, and insect, to name a few.

A light Gray Owl-Blood, approximately a head shorter than the average Human, stepped forward to the center of the stage. The tip of his wings grew into what looked like opposable fingers. His eyes were nearly a third of his face, with a long low beak. In addition to his robes, he wore a winding wooden headband shaped like a crown, with a single ruby centerpiece, and a wooden branching necklace.

He was the Head Blood Elder responsible for chronicling all ceremonies for the district. As he motioned to clear his throat, despite his small size, he declared with a solemn and powerful voice to the crowd.

“We stand before you in the present to share with you a story from the past and chronicle the beginning of one that may be shared with future generations.”

“We, the protectors of the sacred Memory Lattice, which has held the collective knowledge of all who came before us and all who will come after.”

“We are the Conductors of the Quire of Stories, we spin legends of Gardios and Keeper’s of old. As were our predecessors before us, we are not just a storyteller, but a Gardios of history. We venerate the first of you who stood before us and we will recall the last, with fondness. We are “The Epilogue”. 

Timothy Thompson gulped as he tried to calm his nerves. The sixteen year old shifted uncomfortably in his own similarly colored, but less decorated robes. Tim awkwardly stood behind a carved podium made of oak. The podium featured a living tapestry of a flying phoenix encircling a human warrior, a blend of human and Blood artwork. Tim’s dark-brown eyes darted around the numerous rows of people who faced him. He could easily distinguish the hundred or so pairs of eyes observing his every move.

In the background, a hammering sound echoed throughout the hall. Its steady beat merged with the divine hymn. The clanking abruptly stopped after another minute.

The stage shook with every heavy footstep of the massive beast that approached Tim, claws scraping the mosaic stone-tiled floor. The beast wore a helmet of polished walnut, a single blood-red ruby gleaming at its center. The wood covered its head and long, curved horns. Winding black patterns crept across the Blood’s hooded poncho-like robes. Lustrous walnut bangles, lined with rubies, twisted over its forearms. Its bear-like hands, with an opposable thumb and three fingers, grasped a small crimson-red cushion. A silver-chain necklace supporting a crescent moon shape was laid upon it, sparkling as it reflected the flaming torches illuminating the stage.

Large pitch black eyes contrasted with radiant golden irises peered down at Tim, who returned a determined gaze.

As the singing subsided, the Head Elder stepped forward, decorated with gold embroidery intricately assembled into a human warrior; not a single wrinkle was present on his perfectly ironed robes. The corners of his eyes and mouth exhibited a lifetime of frowns.

The Head Elder's eyes narrowed at Tim's messy black ponytail, and his disapproval was evident. The young candidate’s appearance aside, he decided to return his attention to the audience. “Since the time of Phoenia, we have safeguarded their secrets, since before language we have recalled their culture. When they wavered from their path, we became guardians of their fate.” The chamber had long fallen silent, the Head Elder’s voice booming in the hollow emptiness of the space. “With solemn duty, upon her name, this pact will never die.” The final words were spoken with an inherent solemnity and the audible booming of an old world Herald.

Tim wondered who that was for, the audience, him or the Elder. Though the speech itself was largely unaltered from the first time it was read all those millenia ago, now it seemed archaic, like reading a text in old English, than in modern.

“Candidate, you may recite the Blood Oath,” he announced in a stern, gruff voice.

What were the words again? Ik, Timothy Thompson, solhume… something… something? Tim's mind raced as he scrambled to remember the oath, desperate to avoid any mistakes. He scanned the room hoping for some kind of sign of encouragement, the hundreds of eyes staring at him. Success meant that he would ascend to the next stage in his life towards adulthood. But failure would mean embarrassing his entire family, and his community, never letting him live it down. Though embarrassment would fade over time, the sting of recollection would always seem just as sharp as the first time. 

Tim stood at the podium, the thoughts of disappointment paralyzing him with fear, it's cold specter grasping his heart firmly. 

Man, this sucks! I can’t disappoint the community, let alone my family. I’ve been waiting for my sixteenth birthday to come here and finally take my oath and become a full fledged Keeper! I have a responsibility to get this right. Tim worried. 

It was then that Tim could feel a familiar presence within his mind, The warrior who acts and acts hastily might be doomed to failure, but one who fails to act is certainly doomed. The voice spoke to him in a gruff tone.

That's what I’m worried about… Tim seemed uncertain of himself.

Like a weight that stays a hand, stopping the killing blow from falling. You are weighted. What stays your hand? He asked, having already guessed the answer.

Like… What I’m really afraid of? Tim pondered for a moment, before finally coming to a conclusion. I guess… I’m just really afraid of disappointing you as a partner, after all, you’re going to be stuck with me for the rest of my life.

A sculptor isn’t a sculptor if he has not yet put chisel to stone, he is not skilled in the craft before he has started its practice. You will prove your worth over time, I am sure. Failure to act now will ensure you are not given that chance. The voice cautioned.

The Head Elder cleared his throat once more, signaling him to begin.

I still feel alone in this. Tim began to doubt his memory. Like studying for an exam and finding yourself watching television instead.

Maybe you’re not as alone as you think. Look at the front row, center seat. The voice pointed out to him.

Tim’s gaze searched, finally settling on the front row. Tim’s little sister beamed up at him, the eight year old gave him a double thumbs up. Her caramel-brown hair was tied into short, curled pigtails today, and her large, round hazel eyes shone like twinkling stars. 

Tim returned a slightly crooked grin, suddenly feeling more relieved and confident. He took a huge breath before reciting his oath in a silvery voice:

“*Ik, Timothy Thompson, solhume swah tae bay

Ah p’seery oh teer sacry,

Ah coniclay oh teer culltar,

En ah gudrine oh teer fae.

Witl ousakeh leyota,

Opah Kapuah’s neme te,

Ik selel foolhe hiz undios paku,

B’lode Uat Te*”

With that, the oath was complete, a ritual that signified a union between Humans and Blood. Begun in ancient times when both sides were huddled in fear, both had gone to war, as imperfect and unlikely as it was, two people on two opposite sides came together and forged a path forward that did not involve blood being spilled.

Eventually, that small union would form into the mighty organization that is the Mimic’s Creed today. It was through these first steps that Tim would serve as part of something greater. Would he be the one to lead both sides into a bright future or would he drift into the annals of obscurity, only time would tell.

*[I, __________, solemnly swear to be

A preserver of their secrets,

A chronicler of their culture,

And a guardian of their fate.

With unshaken loyalty,

Upon the Keeper’s name,

I shall follow this undying pact,

The Blood Oath]