This grime-covered journal is bound in a thick green cover; many of its pages bare holes and tears, wrought by a mixture of low quality and significant use. The first half of the book consists largely of notes on the topic of chemistry and explosive mixtures. But upon the last few pages is the inane scrawling of strange pictographs and runes. The first bit of legible content past this point is written in sharp, scratchy Auran. It reads as follows:

I don't know what it was, where it was, or why its body swirled the colour of pitch and darkness, but I know that I am enamored by what little I recall.
Were I to know the portal's destination before, I cannot say for certain if I would have stepped in so willingly. The strange realm with no light irks me with its persistence around me - the darkness feels darker, the shadows feel deeper, and I look for those shaded figures around every corner.
I fear I am hallucinating whispers on the wind.
Accosted by raven with feathers as black as that place, it was unordinary with a strange intelligence - those around me called it an ill-omen, but I felt its presence as neutral if not friendly.
Though lost in the wood, I can still hear the voice that rustled in the trees behind its path. I must look for the blood of the raven.
I do not know the cryptic meaning, or if it is blood by my hand these being wish. But I understand them, and they do not discourage me - I heard them, and yet they spoke with words I could not make a mimicking mockery of, like I do those who live in the cities and trails.
I hunt for the ravens. I hunt for that place again, to bask in the presence of the creatures within. I hunt for the dark mirrors they coveted in their nest. I wish to hear their whispers once more, and I wish to speak to them as they speak to me.