The fear of blood tends to create fear for the flesh.

Creatures from field upon field of barren wasteland welcome your body; welcome to the quaint, unassuming, quiet, lonely town of Craven Arms. This is a place unlike any other. None amongst mortal men may be prepared for what awaits within, lurking beneath ancient trees, lying in wait amongst grassy plains, stalking you through the incomprehensible aisles of Tuffins. So come, friend, stay a while and listen.

Craven Arms may be the last place you ever visit. All of your needs, earthly and unearthly, may be met here. The tall ones shall cater to your every need. The high council, in their dome of justice, keep the peace and rule with an iron (yet fair) fist.

The metal carriages carry in new blood, carry away those that have nothing more to offer the town. Come see the crossing barriers rise, fall, rise, fall, and one day never rise again. This omen marks the end of days.

Hear for yourself the rich and sultry tones of the Craven Arms numbers station. Broadcasting a steady stream of numbers, both real and unreal, since the early 60s. Nobody knows its purpose, and to try to understand is to fall into insanity.

Some claim to have heard voices on the airwaves - broadcasts from years ago echoed back from the surface of some distant moon. Such fantasies are the work of the outsider. The voices should not be listened to.