An ink pot sits upon the desk of fate. Different to all such other pots, it sits caked in dust and surrounded by much of the same, waiting for its chance to grace the tip of a pen once more. But seldom comes the chance around for its position to be changed, so it sits still upon its place with the patience of mountains and ice.
The fates while write and weave what may and bring the world to chaos or order, but none other knows for certain to which direction it is that follows or which direction they follow in turn.
Yet still the ink pot waits. It waits like so many others, for a chance to come to seize. It waits to write upon that parchment of life and death the name and deed of one whose legend and deeds will be not forgotten by memory or soured by stories told from the unknowing.
It waits to sit upon that parchment and reveal its glory and that of whom it names, as a fire cast and raging in the sky. And as all that surrounds it will be, its presence mutes truth as much as it preserves.
The wait comes and stays to settle its place among men. For one can always seize the day, but not every day is one worthy of being seized. And so the wait goes on for that one day, one glorious chance to set the sky aflame. The chance of heroes, kings martyrs and foes of every stripe.
For all had their chance to seize a day worth seizing. The ink pot waits to record the outcome.