This is somewhere in the Library of Unseen University. You are in an aisle, with shelves to your right and to your left. The air is dry and feels like it has been boiled in a sock for a thousand years; there is also a sound, right on the edge of hearing, as of falling snow or the rusting of iron.
Your skin tingles with the discharge of magic and the air feels greasy and tastes of tin.
There are two obvious exits: forward and backward.
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