Here is a short story about Paladin, Sir Shallot, and the unholy spectacle he stumbled upon on All Hallows' Eve.
I hope this gives you a good start to visualizing his terrifying night!
The Blasphemy of Samhain
Sir Shallot, Paladin of the Radiant Order, felt the familiar dread as the last orange light faded from the sky. This night—Samhain, as the common folk called it—always brought a chill that went deeper than the October air. He wasn't afraid of goblins or ghosts; he feared the deliberate corruption of the divine.
He was traveling through the Whispering Woods when a sudden, sickening sound of scraping iron and discordant chanting pulled him off the path. The forest, normally a place of quiet reverence, was curdled with a spiritual poison that made the consecrated steel of his breastplate feel icy and brittle.
Shallot pressed on, his hand gripping the hilt of his blessed longsword. The trees gave way to a clearing dominated by a single, twisted oak. Beneath it, a circle of robed figures swayed around a bonfire that burned an unnatural, sickly green. This was no harmless gathering; this was a Witch’s Sabbath, a profane inversion of worship.
At the center stood a makeshift altar of jagged stones, upon which rested a tarnished silver chalice overflowing with a dark, oily liquid. As the lead witch raised her arms, her face a mask of ecstatic malice, Shallot saw the true horror: they were not sacrificing life, but silence. They were draining the sacred peace of the forest itself into that chalice, turning harmony into cacophony, and light into spiritual pollution.
“Blasphemy!” Shallot roared, his voice ringing against the dark chant. He charged, a beacon of gold and steel against the emerald fire. He invoked the power of his oath, and a wave of searing, golden light exploded from his shield.
The witches shrieked, their robes dissolving into smoke. But the horror was not in their fear; it was in their laughter. As the shadows fled, the lead witch turned, her eyes two pinpricks of pure, hungry void. Before she vanished, a wisp of the foul green smoke touched Shallot’s holy symbol, and a single, chilling thought echoed in his mind, "You only scratched the surface, little light. We hold the night now."
Shallot stood alone in the grove, the sickly fire dying down to ordinary embers. He had won, but his victory felt hollow. He had purged the circle, but the true terror had been the sight of sacred things mocked, and the certainty that the darkness he fought was not merely external, but had a terrifying, ancient sentience. He spent the rest of the night kneeling in the cold dust, praying for the cleansing of his soul from the horror he had witnessed.
