The Order of the Zealots, a congregation of fanatics whose identities remain as shrouded in darkness as their doctrine

Deep in the woodlands, on nights when the moon is painted a bloody crimson

These eccentrics emerge from the shadows, united only by their shared devotion to the one they call The Lord of the Woods

Arranging themselves in grotesque geometric formations around a monolith of unknown origin, a low hum emanates from their tattered hoods

As their voices converge in unholy harmony, a rumble echoes throughout the misshapen trees

And as if controlled by a nameless malevolent force, the stars finally align

On the Night when the Zealots rise