There is a room separated from reality. There are many like it, hundreds if not thousands. In this room its occupant scratches his gnarled pen on the great tome in front of him. He is ancient, not truly the most ancient of beings, but old enough to have been worn by time and his duty to his lord. His white fur glimmers slightly in the old candle dimly lighting his chamber. He could as well be a god, and yet at the same time he is a prisoner. Too long he had dwelt in the dark writing his definitive history; then again time flowed differently in the daemonic realms. One of the runic devices he had scribbled down suddenly cavorted and changed, then shimmered and changed back again. The Vermin Lord glared down at the section now changing back and forth and muttered his annoyance. The skein of fate was undecided again between what seemed to be two paths. The candle guttered slightly in sympathy. R'tti'g'wtil sighed and reclined in his chair and waited for the fates to decide what would happen.