Gather 'round the camp fire, little ones all. I've a story to tell.
There is a place, oft described simply as gaping chaos, twixt frost and fire. It swirled, and still does, and once it brought together two important shapes. One was nearly like a man, though no more so than he was like a bear, and who was warm, though could find a home in the snow. One was a cow, who ate what was around and gave milk to the man. From these two shapes came nearly everything else, directly or indirectly.
Three came before the two. One might call them sisters, though they did not have parents any more than the cow, or the man. If you saw them for what they were, but did not ask their names, you would call them the fates. They know all that has happened, and all that is happening, and all that will happen. They keep the stability needed for life in this world, and they weave the threads that mark one forgotten, unsung, or remembered throughout the world. Fate. Duty. Future.
The three may have had power over the gaping chaos, or perhaps had as little power over it as any other being. But what came from it--they knew that, had that.
They weave threads, weave lives. And I, though I may be but one thread, weave stories. I make something of nothing, as the three's originating chaos did.