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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Grotesque, crimson tendrils are oozing out of cracks in a worn, stone abbey, like, merging with a cluster of black, crystalline formations that seem to be slowly devouring the walls. The air's heavy with the stench of rot and death, and I can hear the sound of seagulls screeching in the distance, echoing off the stillness. Uh, a massive, crystalline iceberg is somehow lodged in the abbey's vaulted ceiling, and its melting is causing a steady trickle of water to pour down onto a pile of what looks like hundreds of rusting, medieval swords. The sun's a pale, silver disc hovering just above the horizon.