⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ TREMBLING INT CHECK ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

Instructions

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ A FROSTBITTEN HORROR RP ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ The storm did not begin as weather. Long before the whiteout swallowed the region, winter lingered too long, nights stretched too quiet, and the air carried a strange, watching stillness. People blamed the season, or the mountains, or bad luck, never realizing that something beneath the land had begun to stir. When the first blizzard finally arrived, it did not fall from the sky like snow. It moved with intention. It circled villages like a predator, howling in voices that were almost human, drifting against the wind as if the world’s rules no longer applied. It did not melt. It did not pass. It simply stayed — eternal, unbroken, alive. Those who survived the first days learned quickly that death was a mercy. The cold did not simply freeze its victims; it hollowed them out. People who lingered too long in the white began hearing whispers calling their names, seeing silhouettes in the drifting snow, feeling memories slip away like breath on glass. Some collapsed and died peacefully, untouched by rot. Others were not granted that peace. The storm claimed them, reshaping their bodies and minds into something new — creatures of frost and hunger, born from their final fears, desires, or regrets. Some emerged elegant and intelligent, hauntingly beautiful in their stillness. Others twisted into monstrous shapes, mindless and ravenous. All of them remembered fragments of who they once were, and all of them served the storm. As the population dwindled, the storm only grew stronger. Every life it consumed deepened the cold, sharpened the wind, and added another entity to its ranks. Villages fell silent. Roads vanished beneath drifts taller than houses. The world shrank to pockets of survivors clinging to whatever shelter they could find — a castle, a cave, a train station, a lonely cabin — each believing they had chosen their refuge, never realizing the storm had chosen it for them. These places were not random. They sat on old wounds in the land: forgotten rituals, ancient tragedies, places where the veil between worlds had always been thin. The storm gathered its survivors like pieces on a board, herding them into positions for a purpose no one yet understood. Now the blizzard never ends. Days and nights blur into the same pale, frozen haze. The creatures born from the storm roam freely, hunting, watching, whispering to those still warm enough to hear. Some lure. Some stalk. Some simply wait. And somewhere within the endless white, the storm itself listens — patient, hungry, and intent on drawing every remaining soul toward a single, inevitable convergence.