It lurks on the edge of most maps/any map/every map, a festering sore/wound/gash on reality. They say laughter died in Grimsville long ago/recently/sometime. A creeping chill/sorrow/despair hangs over the place, making even the sun look sick/appear dull/seem to weep. The buildings are twisted/broken/bent, their windows like vacant eyes/staring into

The dark depths hold secrets beyond comprehension. Legends whisper of a creeping presence, a third shadow stalks the dreams of unsuspecting souls. Consuming by an demonic power, this terror watches its prey in a state of contented slumber. A shiver runs down your spine. It's always watching, lurking just outside the pale moonlight, waiting for the