The chanting stilled as the leader, face shadowed by a heavily gilded hood, stepped forward and began to intone a ritual in some indecipherable tongue. I do not know if he was of limited mental capacity, lost in religious mania, or simply drugged, but he was definitely not sound of mind as he knelt in the center of the thrumming circle. As their chanting droned on, I thought to make my escape lest they see me, but my attention was riveted by a pale, vacant-eyed supplicant being led forward. I had heard tales of these hooded cultists and their depraved rituals, and I must admit to some curiosity upon seeing them. Their torches lit the macabre proceedings in a pallid light that danced over their garish rune-covered robes. That was when I first saw them, the dark cultists, arrayed in a circle. Instead, I sought out a well-hidden vantage point from which I could look upon the frigid clearing that seemed violently torn from the depths of the forest. I thank whatever gods blessed me with the presence of mind to stop short of entering that unholy place whence the sound originated. So horrendous was this feeling that I thought to turn away until the sound of chanting reached my ears and drew me onward. As I approached, however, something even darker than the unlit forest crept over me. Thus, when I saw the distant light of fire while making my way through the thick Tristram forest, I welcomed the company of fellow travelers. There is an absolute and oppressive darkness to be found only in the deep wilderness at night. I have spent months trying to ease the fevered imaginings that have tormented me since that encounter a scant few months past, but to no avail. I knew the cultists had found me when I saw the bloody, curved knife stabbed violently into my door this morning.
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