Fantasy RP Whispers of Desire

[Weskerswife]

The night was tense as Captain Frost led his team through the abandoned asylum, their flashlights slicing through the darkness. His blue eyes were steely, locked in focus, while his chiseled jaw tightened in anticipation. The mission was simple: eliminate any trace of the terrorist group rumored to be using the old building as their hideout.

"Stay sharp, team," Frost's voice crackled through the comms. His breath misted in the cold air as he motioned for his men to spread out. The asylum loomed around them, every creak and whisper amplified by the eerie silence. Broken windows and graffiti-covered walls stood as reminders of the madness that once lived here.

Mason, one of the younger members of the task force, swept his flashlight across the dusty corridor. “This place gives me the creeps,” he muttered under his breath.

“Cut the chatter,” Frost responded, his tone cold but steady. He wasn’t one for ghost stories, but something about the asylum felt off. It was as if the darkness itself was watching, waiting.

They continued down the narrow hallways, their footsteps echoing through the empty rooms. Frost paused, feeling a strange warmth settle over him. It was out of place in the cold, damp air of the asylum. He looked around, his gaze narrowing as he scanned the darkness, but saw nothing.

Then, a soft, barely audible laugh echoed in the distance. Frost stopped, his senses on high alert. “Did anyone hear that?” he asked, turning to face his team.

“Probably the wind,” Mason offered quickly, though his voice was tinged with uncertainty.

Frost shook off the unease, forcing himself to focus. “Keep moving,” he ordered. But the strange warmth lingered, following him like a shadow.

As they moved deeper into the asylum, the air grew heavier, more suffocating. Frost found it harder to concentrate, an odd feeling of longing creeping into his mind. It made no sense. His mission was clear, his instincts sharp—yet he couldn’t shake the unsettling sense that something, or someone, was watching him with an almost… intimate intensity.

Pushing the thought aside, he pressed on. But as they entered another dark corridor, Frost couldn’t ignore the distinct feeling that whatever was in this asylum was not just a threat to their mission—it was something far more dangerous, and far more tempting, than any of them could imagine.

 

[Knight_of_None]

As the humans wandered the halls, the dust choked, chilly air in this forsaken asylum bellowed with a gust of wind from shattered windows and broken walls. The gusts rattling a few left over wind flaps. The passing flash lights angled into open doors, showing abandoned rooms. Walls gray with dust and grime, beds eaten threw by decay and time, bleach out name tags and thrown about remains of clothing laid within. The stories of this place were well known in the nearby town, a nut house that was shutdown after the deaths of several patients and nurse staff in a gas leak. Atleast that was the rationalist story. The ghost story was worse. This place was allegedly cursed, a patient had been shuddered inside this building, a woman aiming to be a witch, whom spoke to the darkness. She was bound, hands and feet, and left to wander the halls in yhe dead of night, accused of bewitching the orderliness onto her slaves. The head psychiatrist was fascinated by the beautiful monster, and subjected her to experiments, volts of shock therapy and boiling baths , one such experiment was her end. But before she passed, she channeled a hateful curse, to see this place rot and all that crossed its threshold would never step put without her willing agreement. In those next weeks, pstientswere in a frenzy, more so than usual, some out right dying in their sleep or suffering sezures daily.

 

[Weskerswife]

The humans wandered the halls, the dust-choked, chilly air in this forsaken asylum bellowing with a gust of wind through shattered windows and broken walls. The gusts rattled a few leftover wind flaps. The passing flashlights angled into open doors, illuminating abandoned rooms. Walls were gray with dust and grime, beds eaten through by decay and time, bleached-out nametags, and thrown-about remains of clothing littering the floors.

Captain Frost kept his team moving steadily, though the darkness seemed to cling to them like an unwelcome guest. The asylum's walls felt too close, as if the building itself was watching. His team, seasoned but still human, was growing uneasy. Frost could sense it in their shifting eyes and hesitant steps.

"Keep your eyes forward," he ordered sharply, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. He wasn’t about to let superstition undermine the mission, no matter how suffocating the air felt.

But the stories of this place were infamous. In the nearby town, everyone knew the tale—a madhouse shut down after several patients and nurses died in a gas leak. It was the rational explanation, though no one really believed it. The ghost story was darker: the tale of a woman claiming to be a witch, accused of summoning shadows, bound hand and foot, and left to wander these halls. Her torment at the hands of the asylum’s head psychiatrist was cruel, they said. Electric shocks, boiling baths, twisted experiments. The rumor was that before she died, she had cursed the asylum itself. Those who entered would never leave—unless she allowed it.

Mason’s flashlight flickered suddenly, and he cursed under his breath, slapping the side of the device. “Damn thing’s on the fritz.”

Frost glanced back, his patience thin. “Keep it together, Mason. We’re almost through here.” But even as he spoke, he felt an icy chill creep up his spine. It wasn’t the cold; it was something more primal, more aware. He scanned the dark hallways ahead, noting the eerie stillness that had settled over the building.

As they approached a wide junction in the corridor, the atmosphere shifted again. The air felt dense, heavy with a sense of anticipation. Frost gestured for his men to fan out, covering both directions. He strained his ears, catching faint echoes—whispers, maybe, but he couldn’t tell if they were real or just the wind playing tricks.

"Sir," whispered Harris, another member of the squad, his voice barely audible. "I think I saw something move in the room ahead."

Frost narrowed his eyes. "What was it?"

"Couldn’t tell," Harris replied. "It was just a shadow… but it felt like someone was watching."

Frost's jaw tightened. "Everyone, eyes sharp," he ordered. "No distractions."

He stepped forward, feeling a strange warmth along his neck, almost like a breath against his skin. He spun around quickly, gun raised, but there was nothing. Just the darkness and the faint hum of the team’s gear.

Suddenly, a distant wail pierced the silence—a soft, eerie cry that seemed to come from everywhere at once. It sent a shiver down the spines of even the toughest men in the squad. Frost clenched his teeth, trying to drown out the primal fear clawing at the back of his mind.

"Steady," he called out, voice firm, though the unsettling feeling of being watched was growing stronger.

Then, a sudden rush of air brushed past him, carrying the faintest scent of lavender and something else—something sweet, almost intoxicating. Frost’s eyes darted around, but he saw no movement. Yet he could feel it, like a pair of unseen eyes burning into him, not with malice, but with a dark, haunting allure.

“Captain,” Mason said in a shaky voice, “I… I think we need to pull back.”

Frost set his jaw, forcing himself to remain focused. “Negative. We finish the sweep.”

He wouldn’t let an old ghost story and a strange scent shake his resolve. But deep down, he couldn’t deny the unsettling feeling creeping through him—a strange mix of desire and dread. And somewhere in the shadows, the spirit watched, her eyes gleaming with interest.