The grave is grey, misty, and a mile across in any direction. It is filled with dirt, bones, and wood, all mashed together to form an enormous mass of grave dust.
The headstone reaches halfway to the clouds, taller than any tree on Lint. The letters engraved on it reach seven feet deep in some places, and they speak to the world, and they say:
"Here lies a traitor.”
The body of whatever lies there was so big that no bacteria could put a dent in it, no scavenger finish it. The body has calcified into stone, it's thirteen staring eyes forever watching the world around it. It's mouth gapes, and all who enter return, but their minds do not.
A half-mile long sword impales the corpse, thrusting through what could have once been it’s heart. All who look upon the sword feel pain, sharp stabs to their chest they cannot be rid of.
Wary and wise are those who ignore the grave. Wary and wise are those who ignore the callings entering from that cursed being’s mouth. Wary and wise are those who tread no further.