Not a Cult, Merely a Cage

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From the Desk of Lord Northwood

May 25th, Where the masks were tighter than the bonds, and twice as suffocating.

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When grief kept me grounded—mourning the slow passing of a loyal companion—I sought solace in a remote gathering, a secret circle that met not face-to-face, but through inked letters passed in hidden corners, far from the noise of the world.

In this fold, I found two kindred spirits who welcomed me in, and soon enough, I was adopted into their inner company. For months, we shared words daily, a fragile comfort amid my loneliness. But as time passed, the true nature of our fellowship revealed itself.

At the center stood a man who claimed innocence but cast a long shadow—accused quietly of crossing boundaries far too young and vulnerable to be ignored. Though he denied the whispers, insisting this was “not a cult,” the truth was unmistakable. When confronted, he destroyed the very circle he’d built, vanishing as if to erase the past.

I admit, I was slow to see the darkness. In my desperation for connection and often fogged by drink, I turned a blind eye. But when he began spewing vile language, crossing lines I could not abide, I spoke out—and was swiftly cast aside.

Even as most severed ties with him, there lingered one who posed as a critic, a self-declared watchdog who called him a predator behind closed doors, yet gradually turned sycophant. This man, whom I once considered a friend, revealed his true nature not only in betrayal but in cruelty. He had once laid with a dear companion of mine—a woman of remarkable grace—and when she refused to pursue him further, he turned venomous. The rejection wounded his pride, and he retaliated with slurs, accusations, and cruelty unbecoming of any gentleman.

Still, I tried to manage the unraveling threads. Another figure, silent and enigmatic, hailed from a far-off land. Rumor whispered he had severed his own tongue to remain mute, though I suspect it is more a vow of silence than anything anatomical. He never spoke—save once.

And that one time was my doing.

In a careless moment, I mentioned in passing that he had once broken his silence to speak with the leader’s new flame. It was a small truth, but one that ignited suspicion. The leader, ever insecure in his vanity, accused him of trying to steal her. And so, the silent one—drawn into a storm not of his making—was forced once more to utter words, breaking his vow to defend his name. I still regret it. He deserved better.

I alone unraveled the true identities behind the masks, a private investigator of sorts in this paper-bound secret society. Yet even then, lies were spun: the critic claimed to track my every move, though his claims seem now to have been grandiose at best.

As alliances shifted and friendships frayed, I found myself isolated—ostracized by those who once shared my trust. Their world remained trapped in endless cycles of drunken revelry and empty promises, while I stepped away, certain I was better than the games they played.

Though I mourn the illusion of what might have been, I know this is my liberation—the closing of a chapter stained with betrayal, yet illuminated by the strength to walk away. Let it be said plainly: what posed as a fellowship was little more than a cult masquerading as camaraderie, dressed in jest and denial. They denied the poison, as if giving it a playful name could make it safe. But a serpent in a mask still bites, and the bite was real.

They remain there now, in their little world of drink, delusion, and digital debauchery, whispering falsehoods and stroking one another’s egos in a realm that promises nothing and delivers even less. Grown men and girls playing at gods and goblins, too lost in their own drama to realize the stage has collapsed.

They shall never become more than shadows, sipping stale wine from cracked goblets, circling the same fire that burned them all. And so I walked away. From the whispers disguised as wisdom. From the masks worn proudly by cowards. From the circle of drunken fools pretending at intimacy, at insight, at purpose. They clung to their rituals like lifelines, groping in the dark for relevance, addicted to attention, drowning in their own illusions. I left them where they belonged—swirling in their stagnant pool of gossip, gaslighting, and grand delusions.

I do not name the place. I do not grant it that dignity.

After all… it was never a cult.

Was it? I walked away, with my name intact and my future unwritten.

May their letters never reach me again.

Faithfully,

Lord Nicholas Northwood