Night fell, and never stopped falling.
Not the curtain-call kind that slips away when morning taps her watch. No. This one stayed, dug in its claws, and slunk low. A hostile takeover of the natural order.
Many a cycle has passed since it came. Since Nocturnia blackened and crumbled to ash. Since the Gloom stretched its shadow across the sky and refused to let go.
Most monsters don’t remember the dawn. Born beneath a spoiled moon, we are savage things, made mean by the long dark.
Alone, monsters are prey. So we gather in mobs and do what must be done to survive.
Night is when bad things happen. And night is all we know.
The Gloom does not merely destroy. It devours. It seeds its Hex wherever it drifts. Some monsters fall fast. They let the poison in, endure the ache as their edges thin.
Easier to be hollow than hungry. Easier to be fed on than to bite back.
Yet still, we fight.
We scramble for dominion, clutching at scraps of power the Gloom has not yet stolen. Find us in broken places, among the ruins of our former might, hunting for the last curse sharp enough to cut the dark.
The Grimsbourne’s curse.
The only thing left that might make the Gloom bleed.
They say the Stone That Breathes sealed the Grimsbourne’s curse within the forbidden tomes, where it waits for the one who survives their terrors and stands alone when the melee is done.
So rise. Take your mark. Spill what must be spilled. Gather your mobs and make haste, for the melee is upon us.
Become the Grimsbourne, or be swallowed nameless by the Gloom.
The Gloom does not merely destroy. It devours. It seeds its Hex wherever it drifts. Some monsters fall fast. They let the poison in, endure the ache as their edges thin.
Easier to be hollow than hungry. Easier to be fed on than to bite back.
Yet still, we fight.
We scramble for dominion, clutching at scraps of power the Gloom has not yet stolen. Find us in broken places, among the ruins of our former might, hunting for the last curse sharp enough to cut the dark.
The Grimsbourne’s curse.
The only thing left that might make the Gloom bleed.
They say the Stone That Breathes sealed the Grimsbourne’s curse within the forbidden tomes, where it waits for the one who survives their terrors and stands alone when the melee is done.
So rise. Take your mark. Spill what must be spilled. Gather your mobs and make haste, for the melee is upon us.
Become the Grimsbourne, or be swallowed nameless by the Gloom.