From the Introduction:
This is the sad and simple fact: we’re a society of needy people. We’re so desperate to belong. We’ll do anything to make friends. To look good. To find some kind of companionship and affirmation, or some sense of spiritual satisfaction, real or false. Is it any wonder that in this World of Darkness cults spring up again and again, growing swiftly and without warning like a bad patch of choking weeds?
Thing is, though, very rarely does a cult start off as exactly that. No, they usually begin with more auspicious and beneficent ideals. A self-help group aims to better its members or, at the worst, its leader hopes to milk some suckers out of a couple bucks. But over time, it shifts. Each member relies a little too much on the group dynamic; they grow co-dependent, and instead of diminishing their desperation, it only blooms anew. It leaves a spiritual hole into which something bad may crawl. They’ll fill the chasm with whatever they can: a demon’s seductive whispers, a drink from a vampire’s wrist, an infectious lunacy whose whispers will not—cannot—be refused. It may take a few months. It may take a dozen years. But over time, the cult mentality takes over. And sometimes, hunters must step in.
But what happens when it’s hunters that grow to become the cultists? What happens when a cell or compact of hunters becomes mired in that cult mentality, opening themselves up to the callous manipulations of a monster?
Welcome to a Bad Night at Blackmoon Farm.
