The results!

....

As Oliver stirred from sleep on his hard floor, the muffled sounds of a commotion reached his ears, punctuating the quietude of his small home. Rubbing his eyes in a drowsy haze, he was startled for a moment when his gaze fell upon the corner of the room.

There, in a peculiar arrangement, the five cultists sat in a circle, their black cloaks creating an almost seamless blend with the shadows. An uncanny stillness hung in the air as the figures, with faces concealed, turned their heads in perfect unison, their attention fixated on Oliver's waking form.

A moment of tension lingered in the room, the ordinary space transformed by the presence of these mythical entities. 

The tension that momentarily gripped the room dissolved as Oliver, rather than succumbing to fear, embraced the unexpected presence of his mythical creations. With a warm smile, he stood up and walked toward the circle where the five cultists sat. Taking a seat among them, Oliver became the unexpected companion to these mysterious entities.

"So, how did you do last night, my friends?" he inquired, his voice laced with curiosity and camaraderie.

The cultists, their voices shrouded in a chilling unity, began to recount their deeds from the previous night.

"We moved through the shadows, swift and unseen," one of them spoke, the words carrying an eerie cadence.

"A few lives extinguished, a whisper in the night," added another, their tone detached and emotionless.

"And yet, eight souls sought refuge in prayer," intoned a third, the shadows playing on their obscured features.

Oliver, now a reluctant puppeteer in this unfolding narrative, listened as each cultist recounted their actions, the room resonating with a disconcerting harmony. The myths he had unleashed were not mere spectres; they were living echoes of his imagination, their existence now defined by the consequences of belief and the choices made by the unwitting inhabitants of this fantastical world.

"Great job, guys!" Oliver exclaimed with an earnest warmth, a surreal scene unfolding in the small home. His genuine smile, a stark contrast to the enigmatic cultists clad in black, created a peculiar tableau of camaraderie and discord.

As Oliver's warm compliments lingered in the room, the sudden commotion outside disrupted the peculiar harmony. Frustration furrowed Oliver's brow, an unexpected interruption to the surreal camaraderie with the cultists. Disentangling himself from the circle of enigmatic figures, he headed towards the source of the disturbance, curiosity and irritation mingling within him.

Navigating through the bustling scene, Oliver approached the source of the commotion. In the midst of the crowded thoroughfare, a man stood on a makeshift pedestal, his voice raised in an attempt to restore order.

"Everyone, calm down!" the man yelled, his words resonating through the tumultuous atmosphere. The agitated crowd shifted uneasily, their attention drawn to the figure attempting to assert control.

"I know of the murders that have been committed, but 5 cultists of the night is pure nonsense, do not listen to these false rumours!"

The man on the pedestal addressed the gathered crowd, dismissing the notion of the mythical cultists of the night as pure nonsense. Oliver, proud of his creations, felt a frown crease his brow in response to the man's words. He considered speaking up, ready to defend the reality of the myths he had unleashed.

However, before Oliver could voice his thoughts, a young boy from the crowd stepped forward. 

As the young boy, saved by the old woman and her four kids, stepped forward, a hushed anticipation settled over the crowd. The events of the previous night had granted him a firsthand encounter with the intersection of myths and reality.

"I saw them," the boy spoke, his voice carrying a mixture of fear and conviction. "The cultists of the night. They're real, and they're dangerous!"

The revelation hung in the air, challenging the man on the pedestal's dismissal of the supernatural. 

The man on the pedestal, dismissing the boy's account, responded with mocking laughter. He labelled the young boy a foolish dreamer, casting insults upon him with each condescending word.

"Foolish boy with no home! You believe in such nonsense?" the man scoffed, his derision cutting through the air. 

But his words were refuted by a random woman also claiming to have seen the cultists

The revelation of multiple individuals claiming to have seen the cultists created a tumultuous atmosphere. A wave of uncertainty swept through the crowd, pitting those who embraced superstition against those vehemently rejecting the existence of the mythical cultists.

As the heated arguments escalated, screams reverberated through the air. The clash of beliefs ignited a fierce competition, not only in words but also in physical confrontations. The mediaeval world, torn between the tangible reality and the intangible myths, became a battleground of ideologies.

The man on the pedestal, sensing the chaos, raised his voice once more in an attempt to restore order. His commands cut through the cacophony, a futile effort to quell the rising tide of violence and dissent. The clash between belief and scepticism intensified, leaving Oliver, the inadvertent architect of this conflict, to navigate the consequences of his creations in this fantastical world.

Amidst the chaos and conflict, Oliver, the silent orchestrator of the unfolding narrative, smirked as he observed the tumult from a distance. His hands behind his back, he stood with an air of detached amusement, revelling in the consequences of his mythical creations.

However, unbeknownst to Oliver, the young boy who had encountered the cultists recognized him. Suspicion flickered across the boy's face as he observed Oliver's reaction to the chaos. A seed of doubt was plantes.

Yet, Oliver, seemingly oblivious, turned his back on the unfolding scene and strolled away. His demeanour radiated contentment as he absorbed the chaotic tapestry of the mediaeval world.

Oliver arrived at his sorry home, he swiftly headed inside however the sudden absence of the cultists in Oliver's abode left him bewildered. 

As he looked around, a sense of confusion overcame him. However, when he glanced upward, he noticed one of the cultists emerging from the shadow on the ceiling. Like a bat in repose, it whispered in Oliver's ear with an otherworldly tone.

"Someone we are familiar with is outside. We cannot take action on him till night. We apologise, master," the cultist murmured, its voice carrying a strange blend of obedience and deference.