A notoriously fragile flower than only blooms under the full moon.  It can be made into a powerful, magical narcotic, and is the symbol of a major death cult.

You might describe them as a death cult, a drug cartel, an assassin's guild, or the hosts of the wildest parties in town.  

And you'd be right.

Wisely did Ibn Schacabao say, that happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and happy the town at night whose wizards are all ashes. For it is of old rumour that the soul of the devil-bought hastes not from his charnel clay, but fats and instructs the very worm that gnaws; till out of corruption horrid life springs, and the dull scavengers of earth wax crafty to vex it and swell monstrous to plague it. Great holes secretly are digged where earth's pores ought to suffice, and things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl.  -The Festival, H.P. Lovecraft

"We're nothing new.  We've always been here.  YOU're the newcomers.  You're the animal that forgot that it was a man.  Stop crying, you animal, you sleepwalker!  If you opened your eyes for only an instant you would see that.  You're a race of amnesiacs, of dreaming children.  I said STOP CRYING!  You disgust me.  That's why I'm not going to explain anything else.  That's why you will die--screaming--without ever having truly woken up.  I will paint every inch of this floor with your blood."  

-An Awakened, formerly Ms. Albright, speaking to Albert Frond, immediately before his murder

A family of semi-retired doomsday cultists, just trying to live a quiet life while tending an apple orchard in the country.  Except with complications.

Everyone knows that firearms are weapons only fit for orcs—smelly, loud, and unreliable.  But there are guns made for ogres, too, and the largest of those are called Thunderguns.