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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Shattered chunks of a gleaming obsidian meteorite are scattered across a vast, turquoise-stained ice shelf, stretching out beneath a swirling vortex of iridescent clouds that seem to be draining the color from the sky. A low-pressure system is brewing on the horizon, its leading edge marked by a churning wall of glittering ice crystals that's steadily creeping closer. Umm, the air's alive with an electric charge, making the hairs on everything stand on end, and it smells like burned sulfur. The ice itself is... somehow playing a slowed-down version of the Kyrie eleison from a thousand different angles.