[This text is translated from an archaic form of the ancient Draken language that is rarely heard by outsiders. Fortunately, your datachron can easily translate.]

I have prowled hidden amongst my people, a dagun amongst rowsdowers. I bleat and cringe with the herd, all the while sharpening my claws. I feel no dishonor at this deception, for each lie is an offering to the Covenant of Treachery. My faith's necroshamans need tainted offerings, and I am the best at providing them.

I have made it far into this rotting land, and my blood boils at the bounty that I have already harvested. My bag is filled with cysts and wriggling pustules, tendons and twisted claws, and doubly vile venom glands from corrupted buzzbings. These Strain-debased offerings will fill the necroshamans with dread joy, and they will raise me up in glory. We stand on the verge of the Dark Rites, and soon our destiny will be fulfilled.

And yet, I yearn... no. I hunger. I hunger for more. I feel the power in these things and...

No! They are for the clergy. The necroshamans work in secret, for if our sect were discovered...

But why should they enjoy the fruits of my labor? Surely a taste would not be missed. Perhaps just one pustule.

[The remainder of this text is illegible, and appears to consist of phonetic approximations of growling and barking.]