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

Deep in the swamp, shadows dance and whispers carry on the wind. Here, beasties lurk in the darkness, their lights piercing through the thick foliage. The air is heavy with the aroma of decay and something more foul. You're not alone in this place, player. Bendy himself wanders these paths, his ink soaked from a smile that never reaches his soul. B