As you enter the room, a chill runs up to greet you. Screams from a distance echo through the coldness, and the lashing of a whip can be heard. You feel the cold welcome as you descend to the bottom of the stairs and look around seeing the chains hanging from the walls. A rack sits in the far corner, and closer to you is a cross, crudely made, but useful nonetheless. A leather bullwhip hangs from a hook beside the cross, a crop near the rack. You wonder how many times that same whip has touched tender skin and left its mark as a reminder of its caressing touch. The smell of pain lingers in the air, combined with the sweet scent of passion. The faint essence of burning candles eminate from the torches placed sporadically on the cold stone block wall. The light reflecting off the rivlets of water trickling down the wall. Out of the corner of your eye, an unknown creature disappears around a corner and you shiver.
