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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Wreckage from an old, wooden sailing ship lies half-buried in the snow, umm, with its sails somehow still billowing despite being torn to shreds. I can smell the salty air, and the snow crunches under my feet as I walk; the distant rumbling sound is now barely audible, and the sky above is a pale, pale blue. Nearby, a chunk of ice is embedded with what looks like an ancient scroll, written in hieroglyphics – somehow it's slowly unraveling, revealing more of the text as I watch. The air is freezing, with a crisp, biting quality to it.