4th age, year 1845:
My journals are missing, I have horrible, terrible images of Bilrach pacing through the upper floors of Daemonheim, poring over any disrespectful entry and tearing it out - littering the floors with my prose. Indeed, everything written has gone missing from my offices: the requisition forms, the environmental notes, the written pieces I have collected on my travels. Nothing good can come of this. I fear a terrible cloud hangs over me in these weatherless depths. There is nothing left to do: I must continue as if all is well, and merely hope. My next task is to research a creature newly come to this plane; Bilrach has asked me to write notes on Shukarhazh, a stalker that is remarkable because it is so unremarkable. It is neither aggressive or communicative. It shall be a curious case, and it could yield useful results in taming of the stalkers - but my dark cloud also has a voice, and that voice tells me that this stalker is by no means benign. Bilrach, be merciful; let this not be a trap.