The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Uh, a large wooden trough in the middle of a rustic farmhouse is somehow steadily filling up with freshly churned butter, despite the churn's wooden handle just hanging motionless from the ceiling. The air's crisp and cool, with a scent of fresh hay and a hint of woodsmoke from the nearby hearth. A few chickens are pecking at the grain spills on the stone floor, completely unbothered by the sound of the churn's steady creaking, which is pretty weird since it's not actually moving. The sun's pretty high in the sky, casting a warm glow through the open window.