Delja approaches the text without issue and picks it up. The title fully reads Silver Shot Shipping Logs: From Caz-Adar to Realmspace, 116 F. Hashkar. There is no author. It is, however, a thick and well-bound volume, and the title itself is rather finely embossed even as the cover is otherwise devoid of artistry. Quickly flipping through the tome reveals hundreds of pages of, well, exactly what was promised: deliveries, receipts, contracts, forwards, charters, and so on. It may take some time to work through it proper. The nixie does notice, however, some rather lovely hand-drawn docking charts and doodles of exotic landscapes as seen from a docking spelljammer. The author, presumably one of the officers of the eponymous spelljammer Silver Shot, was certainly a romantic.

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Ux stands close but not quite over the threshold and tests the nearest shelf. There is a fairly minimal but extant layer of dust on everything, though as dry and stale as the air is there is likely not enough movement to spread sediment across the room. He checks a component pouch: this one is filled with colorful salts (whose age is indiscernible), and there is only a slight visible differential in dust under it. The stacks of parchment do not seem to be decaying and should be functional to write upon, but are likewise covered in dust. The tea is on the brittle side, older than would be served at any of the cafés around Sigil, but nothing so old that a sailor would hesitate to drink. The rations are primarily oats, honey, nuts, and dried berries. They are similarly edible, though the nuts and berries are probably at the point where a choosy sailor at port might consider replacing them.

As Ux moves in and starts going through the notebooks, he realizes the vast majority are blank. The few that are not, are filled with disjoint lecture notes, written in the obtuse discursive style of highly technical arcana mixed with the shorthand of an academic who has no interest in their pedagogical value. While none of the notebooks are signed with the author's name, Ux gathers from the author's commentary that: (i) the author is a planeswalker; (ii) the author is a patron of the Society; and (iii) the author is a visiting scholar.

It is no great leap to assess that the author would be the very mage they are looking for, in which case it appears from the most recent notebook that Teru last lectured about one and a half months ago.

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Myriad feels the mythical weave that suffuses the magical sphere and finds within it structure and purpose. With masterful control she bends it to her will and successfully—and she knows she is successful as certainly as she knows she is standing the right way up—accesses the sphere for what it truly is, a gate to someplace else.

With a flash she is pulled within the sphere. (On the map, go to the tab Inside the Sphere.)

As soon as Myriad reorients herself she sees she is standing in a gorgeous, botanical corridor, with neither Delja nor Ux present. Beds of perennials hug the contours of the walls, which are embossed with motifs reminiscent of the hyperbolic tessellations the djinn put on all their constructed and woven art. The ceiling is a gorgeous, rafted bronze hemisphere and the floor aesthetically irregular marble tiles.

It is quiet. There are doors in each cardinal direction, fortunately marked with Draconic plaques. The north is marked Control and Operations, the east Living Quarters, the south Ritual Theater, and the west Recreation and Library.

There is a very slight trail of gory viscera leading between the south and east doors, which (as with all the doors in this hall) are shut. Some of the gore seems to be caked onto the handles of the south and east doors.

Even disregarding the... problematic... gore, there is something very strange about this place, and Myriad can feel it in her bones. It is as if the Blackheart himself was whispering to her, that this is a place the gods do not see.