The Case Files of Peter M. Rowlett

[TheGrinningHound]

Peter M. Rowlett
Private Investigator

Documented within are the true accounts of the investigative cases conducted by Peter Rowlett, and all associates both named and unnamed. As a piece of ongoing work, individual articles are published and edited separately from the entire collection. Some files may contain edited names and details, as while the truth in these affairs are of the utmost importance-- so too is the safety of men and women who partake in the effort to discover it.

[TheGrinningHound]

Peter M. Rowlett
The Case of the Silent Scream
Unpublished Notes
April 9th, 773


How far will man search, to quench his hunger for something greater than himself? And at what cost?

Despite the steady drum of labor and progress amidst the mountain village of Krofburg, Barovia, I continue to encounter this question, like a whisper upon the wind. More often than not, it is an unwelcome suggestion-- a resisted realization shared among the common man. Its presence is acknowledged, but its evidence denied. Hand over hand, shovel over shovel, the hearty people of Barovia continue to claw through the stone in search of a future where they need and want for nothing.

But what they have discovered instead, is something different altogether. As if profaned against their prayers of hope-- a truly sinister presence was unearthed. Now, as I write these words, the good people of Krofburg stir restlessly in their tents and homes, counting the hours to dawn, steeling themselves against despair. What was once an internal doubt, an unwelcome whisper... has evolved entirely, to become a deafening howl amidst the village people-- a silent scream.

~ ~ ~

Months prior to the opening of the tomb, I had secured enough rations and supplies to summit the Ghakis. I had heard rumor among what the Krofburg residents call 'Lowlanders,' that a rich vein of silver had been discovered high in the mountains-- changing an otherwise peaceful and remote village into a smelter of industry and opportunity for new beginnings almost overnight. The Barovians are not often a wayward people, preferring instead to remain within their hamlets and villages for the duration of their life. Yet, this silver seam evoked a clear separation from tradition, spurring the eager toward an uncertain future-- one of their own making.

Already, upon my arrival, new residents had begun to form taverns, tent formations, supply caches, and larders. This was, of course, built as addition to the stone and thatch houses of the original village itself-- an object of clear distinction preferred by prior locals. For many who had lived in the mountain village before the discovery of vast silver, life was straightforward. Men and women alike worked hard with their hands, proud of their trades, and in harmony with the powerful environment of the mountain peak. Now, great smelting fires burn throughout the night, and miners celebrate with drunken revelry. It is a village that does not sleep.

Perhaps it was this general wakefulness that trickled into the earth itself, like an infection. When the village could not sleep, neither too could the evil slumbering dormant beneath it.

[TheGrinningHound]

Peter M. Rowlett
The Case of the Silent Scream
Unpublished Notes
April 9th, 773 (Continued)


On my second evening in the village, during my stay at the Wandering Billy tavern and inn, I had the distinct pleasure of encountering a fellow countryman: one Miss Morrigan Harding. She had established herself thoroughly in the village, overcoming the uncertainty surrounding most other foreigners. We exchanged light stories, and I soon learned that Miss Harding carried with her a rich wealth of knowledge paired elegantly with a youthful drive for adventure and excitement. These qualities had earned the attention of the Burgomaster himself, and she was awarded the position of Bard in service to the estate.

It was not again, until months would pass after my descent from the village, that I discovered Miss Harding visiting a tavern in the valley of the mountain. She was troubled, and fatigued. Returning the previous favor, I invited her to dinner, where I quickly learned of the troubling fate that had befallen the mountain village.

Shortly after my leave, the mountain erupted in a great tremor. The village had known many such geological movements in their past, as there are many fables and stories of the same. This one, however, was of a particular violence and strength. Great boulders shook free, and an avalanche that would have claimed the life of the Burgomaster, were it not for the daring exploits of his entourage in his hasty evacuation. When the dust settled, however, the people of Krofburg were met with a new revelation: the quakes had sundered another rift in the stone.

It was not silver they discovered, but stone-- stone fashioned by the hands of mankind. Remnants of civilization. A great stone gate chiseled into the rock by a master artisan of centuries long passed, an old inscription written upon the parapet, and a freed boulder that lead to a tunnel beneath the structure. One William FitzHugh, chief archaeologist at the Krofburg digs, wasted no time in mustering an able bodied crew to delve within and discover what ancient knowledge was uncovered below. Miss Harding, already proven as a valuable ally, was enlisted in this retinue. It is safe to suggest, as a man in the profession of discovery myself, that when such an opportunity arrives it comes with no small sense of elation. Yet, it is with immense regret that I must share that this eagerness to understand, this chase among peers to be the first to discover something no man living has known, carries such a powerful allure that even wise and learned men forget a most basic caution. Many who would venture below would never return-- and those who did, would be changed forever.

~ ~ ~

The following events are described to me by Miss Harding herself, witness and survivor to the unfolding chaos. It would be untruthful and incomplete to describe these events without acknowledging the sincere and powerful sense of regret within the young Miss Harding. To err is human, but to survive and to live with the weight of one's decision is the pain that makes it so.

Leading the party of archaeologists and guards below the stone gate, Miss Harding and the crew discovered the untouched remnants of what appeared to be an ancient temple. This alone was a remarkable discovery. Somehow, despite the regular tremors beneath the stone mountain, the integrity of the ancient structure remained almost entirely intact. Miss Harding and Mr. FitzHugh confirmed with one another that the origin of the temple appeared to be Neureni-- an archaic, bellicose civilization tracing its roots in Barovia to over five centuries ago. Two masculine statues crested the centerpiece of the temple floor: a decrepit sarcophagus wreathed in forgotten runic symbols. Though the archaeologists took some measure of the antechamber, the resounding impulse to see further took hold. After brief deliberation, Miss Harding elected to lift the lid of the sarcophagus.

Jarring the lid free created a blast of air and energy. The stone lid, easily weighing hundreds of pounds, was thrown high to the ceiling of the chamber, where it collided and splintered into dust and pieces. Within the sarcophagus, the mummified remains of a priest long dead stirred to life. Screaming, shouting, the monstrosity rose from its position and spoke words of command in the Neureni tongue. When it was not understood, it spoke in Balok, and demanded that the crew kneel to their new master. Sensing the danger, Miss Harding understood that the best opportunity to retreat was quickly passing them by. She ordered the men back, and they fought tooth and nail in their retreat. Enraged, the creature fired numerous incantations, releasing profane magical blasts that nearly brought the chamber down upon itself. Of the party that ventured into the forgotten temple, only a handful surfaced alive.

But for the people of the village of Krofburg, their horror had only just begun.

[TheGrinningHound]

Peter M. Rowlett
The Case of the Silent Scream
Unpublished Notes
April 9th, 773 (Continued)



In the weeks that would follow the opening of the Tomb of Otgbish Sharnud, as he has come to name himself, the village of Krofburg was held captive to its reign of terror. In an effort to capture the full truth of these events, this segment will contain unabridged, documented horrors. What must be written, thus, is not for the faint of heart-- but then, too, what was lived by the good people of Krofburg is not merely words upon page, but the unmerciful reality of a cruel and spiteful evil. It is owed to all people, in humble homage and sympathy, to understand the story of the village of Krofburg, and to avoid seeking knowledge that must remain hidden.

It is difficult to ascribe the creature's precise nature. I am by no means an expert in the field of occult magics, and necro-mancy. The creature itself is a bone-thin, skeletal figure with rustic armor and a large crimson banner attached to its back. Its eyes are sealed shut from an embalming procedure centuries past, yet, it seems entirely aware of its surroundings by manner of a curious blue aura of magic for vision. For weapons, the creature implements powerful blasts of magical force; a flaming, ceremonial spear; and a shield. Among peers whose opinion is better suited than my own, they have determined that Otgbish Sharnud, the Unliving, the Silent Scream-- is in fact the reanimated, mummified remains of a once-human Priest of the Demon-Lord, Irlek-Khan. By my present understanding, members of this vulgar religion were pushed back into hiding, deep within the mountains during a great war centuries ago, by Barovian forces lead by the General-Princess Nicoleta von Zarovich and her campaign. This is important to understand, when one must consider why Otgbish was created in the first place. Though at present we must resort to speculation, and it is a matter that must be uncovered with greater scrutiny, some valid theories suggest that Otgbish Sharnud was created to be revealed at a later, more favorable time-- when perhaps centuries of age would allow the forces of Barovia to dwindle in its vigilance.

Within the first week of its new existence-- or at the very least, its return to the mountains-- the Silent Scream sought to establish a presence of fear by terror in the populace. Ruthlessly, it struck at night, butchering guards and militia, and impaling them upon spikes to demoralize resistance against its mission. It has attempted, and undoubtedly succeeded in kidnapping. Still, the most unsettling tactic at its disposal is one I confess I struggle to describe. When brave heroes attempt to defeat this monstrosity, and fail, they are not given even the solace of death. Rather, their bodies are defiled by black, powerful magic, rendering them animated beyond death itself-- beholden by will to a master whose cruelty knows no end. When one man falls victim to the Demon-Priest, they become an addition to its force, and an impetus to its goal-- whatever that may be. It is for this reason, that I urge total and complete caution. No man deserves such a fate, and if we are not careful in our efforts to see the creature destroyed, we may merely become puppets of its cause.

~ ~ ~

Determining the creature's ambitions is among my chief prerogatives. Otgbish Sharnud has displayed a ruthless cunning and intellect, and cannot be underestimated as a foe. Though they are mere speculations, Miss Harding (among others) fears that the creature is capable of infiltrating society while masking its magical presence. Thus, my efforts to discover its truths are kept as quietly as can be managed. Ambition and fear are ripe within the community, and many within the village may be prone to manipulation, blackmail, and threats. Still, what I do understand of its motives are as follows:

• Whatever the creature desires, it does not seem capable of accomplishing it on its own. This is as much a relief as it is an object of caution. I cannot afford to become manipulated into serving its ends. And yet, even if I will myself otherwise, in death-- by Ezra, I hope it does not come-- I would have no choice but to serve.
• There is speculation that the creature is interested in digging deeper beneath the earth. This is a labor-extensive task, and will require more servants: living, or dead.
• By witness accounts, Otgbish Sharnud has declared his intentions to spark another war. While this seems the obvious motive, I find I am not entirely convinced. Perhaps, the creature has simply not taken account of its own forces or position. Perhaps magic and centuries of slumber have spoiled its mind. Or perhaps, it is merely a convenient story that stops others from looking deeper into its true intentions.
• It shares an interest in converting the living to worship its blasphemous god. I must learn more about the machinations and capabilities of those within the occult faith of Irlek-Khan. Is it possible he seeks to reinstate the faith? What would that mean? Is this God dormant, as Otgbish once was? Who is the Zhkv?

~ ~ ~

[TheGrinningHound]

Peter M. Rowlett
The Case of the Silent Scream
Unpublished Notes
April 9th, 773 (Continued)


So begins my investigations. I aimed to return to the mountaintop village, and made preparations to cross the treacherous path. Rain pelted my face, aided by a stinging wind that ripped through my clothes and chilled my bones directly. My ox, carrying my supplies, fought my every step. It seemed to know, with its animal instinct, that where we would go it was not welcome. If only, I thought, that Man, or FitzHugh, or even Miss Harding had been so keen to listen to their fear, that I might not have had to make this climb at all. Still, by now I was determined and felt it was foolish to reconsider history, so I pulled on its lead, urging it forward. If it resisted further, I might have had to set it free, and carry with me only what I could. Alas, my will prevailed, and the pack-ox relinquished its defiance.

As I climbed, the rain shifted to ice, and the path to Krofburg became more treacherous now than ever before. My ox lost its footing, and scrambled to keep upright, nearly pulling me below into a chasm that would have surely been my death. When we were growing near the peak, exhaustion set upon us both, man and beast. I sought shelter in an abandoned cave, keeping a low fire so as not to alert bandits or animal.

As I neared the peak, something in the pit of my stomach turned. It was a smell, heavy and ironlike in the thick snow-- blood. I rounded the crest of a hill, and observed a man bleeding to death in the roads. His ox was slain behind him, with snow already piling on the stiff beast's corpse. Blood had pooled in open wounds at his stomach, and his forearms were mangled from flesh-rending teeth. My own creature reared back in fear, so I let it free for worry of falling again. Moving closer, I tugged loose a restorative from my belt and helped it into the dying man's mouth. I urged him to remain quiet-- whatever did this, could not have been long gone. With the help of the tincture, he could be stable, maybe--

Then, I heard it. A low rumble-- a hungry growl. I could feel every hair on my spine stand. By now, the cloven feet of my ox were speeding away down the stone climb. Yet, I heard no pursuit. No, the starving crag cats had not given chase to the Ox-- but instead, had selected another prey. Me.

I turned on my heels, and was greeted by a swift lunge by the hulking animal, as the whole of its body collided with my own, stealing the very air from my lungs. Sharp fangs sunk into my shoulder, and I could feel its warm breath through the stabbing pain. I cried out, echoing in the mountain peaks-- and then deafened by the thick snow. Wrestling with the beast, I locked its head into place and searched by reaction alone for the dagger at the small of my back. My sword was no use, with the crag cat already upon me-- I would die before drawing it.

I could feel my heart beat through my chest-- the beast missed my neck, but took every moment to rip and tear at the muscle of my shoulder. Another cry of pain, and I thrusted the drawn blade into its side. Together, we rolled into a snowbank. My arms were too weak to hold it close, and I collapsed to the ground. Looking over, I could see it limp to a near distance-- and by grace itself, I saw something else.

Further down the road, my ox, in its great trepidation, had slipped on the ice and fallen hard enough to break its leg. Now, I could hear it bleating and moaning in panic-- perhaps the cat would choose a larger meal, now that we had both been crippled. I had no means to protest its decision either way-- if it chose me now, I was too weak. Blood soaked the snow around me, and cold crept in.

Cold. So very cold.
Clever devils.

[TheGrinningHound]

Peter M. Rowlett
The Case of the Silent Scream
Unpublished Notes
April 9th, 773 (Continued)


This was a familiar feeling, even if I wished otherwise: the blackness, the emptiness, the cold. Somehow both an eternity, and a matter of moments only. The last I felt it was during my brief return to the village of Krofburg-- the eve of my understanding of what had befallen the humble town--a feeling delivered to me by none other than the Silent Scream itself.

When speaking with a local Barovian militia member named Mihai, and to Miss Harding, we were confronted by the presence of the unnatural. In our visual distance, lining the horizon, stood a number of motionless figures-- too still even, to have been breathing. When the clouds cleared, and the moon sheltered us with its light, we could each see between the bones of the gathered force: gaps in the ribs where mortal flesh would have been. Highest upon the peak, was the creature itself, standing proudly with its blood-red war banner.

Miss Harding was taken by a rush of emotion, leaving both the militiaman and myself to watch her dive headfirst into what was undoubtedly a trap. Left with little decision, the two of us looked to each other, and mustered the courage to follow-- if even in the least, to simply convince the girl to wisely retreat. So it was, that I first beheld the monster Otgbish Sharnud. I cannot say that I stood steadfast and strong. The fear of this moment paralyzed my every bone, and I stood motionless, hapless and only able to watch in horror as Miss Harding goaded him-- attempting with her every bile to leech any information from him.

We weren't ready. These were merely theories, and we had much still to attend in preparation. Perhaps... Perhaps they were merely theories to me. That until now, only I had the foolish comfort of believing that time would obey my own schedule, while both Morrigan and Mihai had been living in this tortured reality without end in sight.

I recall the offense working, and the creature riled to bloodlust. I recall him lifting his hands, as if reaching into the very pool of the night itself. I recall darkness swarming to descend upon me, as the black sky had been given shape. Then, I recall nothing more. Screams, cries from others. But even as they started, the edge of their voices dampened in the midst of their words. All that was left, was cold. I was alone. And I was cold.

~ ~ ~

Now, my eyes were opening. Though, each lid felt as though it were as stiff as the stone wall beside me. I reached out with my hand to touch it-- I was laying down, I discovered. My throat was too dry to speak, and my body too weak to suffer any movement other than a pathetic shift atop my cot. I was alive, even if barely.

"Welcome back." A Barovian-accented voice greeted me from the candlelit hovel. "This is for you." The priest stepped closer to me, and let fall a folded piece of parchment to my chest. "You should probably rest." I had no choice in the matter, I found. Rest, he suggested-- and rest, I did.

When I later woke, I found my belongings and the letter. It read:
"I have your wallet. Come collect it at the Miner's Merriment,
Signed, Dahlia"

I sat beneath a small beech for a number of hours. I had not even begun my work proper, and I had all but perished. I questioned myself, surrounded by doubt. Was I truly so eager to die? Who did I believe that I was, that I could conquer death and stand upright against an affront to God herself-- against a blasphemous creature who had withstood the test of time? When I had not lasted the journey here? I cannot say with honesty that I discovered an answer that satisfied my doubt. But eventually, I felt too numb to think-- and the only answer that made sense to questions I no longer recognized, was to simply retrieve my wallet. So I stood, and found my way to the ramshackle tavern: the Miner's Merriment.

When I recalled the tavern from my previous visit, it was little other than an enlarged tent, a well-to-do fashionable rug that had lost its luster beneath muddied boots, a Caliban bouncer, and women who were eager to do anything but be idle. Now, as I returned-- not even months separate-- I found myself in an upright, stone tavern with proper masonry and carpentry that would make any Barovian proud. Two fires burned in separate coves, with lush, comfortable furniture (though still of a sultry scarlet color-- even a well furnished brothel can't help but retain the theme). Racks were stocked with exotic and colorful drinks. I suppose, in Barovia, the people tithe willingly to a Church of Reds and Liquor-- and they were want for nothing.

I was greeted at the bar by a pale-skinned Caliban woman. She had a large frame, as those of her kind so often do, but she did not relent with the idea of her own feminine charm. Thick locks of bone-white hair hung around a silver mask that adorned the upper half of her face. Around her shoulders, she kept warm with a thick canine fur, but ensured that her bosom was not interrupted by the desire for warmth. At the Miner's Merriment, the clergy possess a particular sensibility, and it's worked well thus far-- why change what isn't failing?

She knew immediately who I was, but had the decency to allow me to come to the same conclusion. Now that I had been conscious for some time, the pain had begun to ebb and flow in pulses. To dull the feeling, I drank native Barovian plumb brandy-- a spirit with a fruity aroma, but a painful bite of its own. Not as sharp a sting as a Crag Cat's, but one must ease their way back into the realm of healthy reprieve.

"Did you have anything in your wallet, when you..?" Dahlia asked tentatively, expecting a disappointing answer. I didn't immediately supply it. Perhaps we both didn't want to be having the conversation we were. "Well, when I found it, it was empty. I paid the priest's debt with my own coin."
Thieves had pinched my coinpurse when they found me, before Dahlia did. The realization soured my appetite, but soon I considered that I dare not blame them. For the people of the village of Krofburg, every day is a battle that must be won, or lost. That evening, I had lost my own.
"There was another man, in the snow. The crag cats got to him first," I began to inquire.
"I didn't see anyone. It's possible they survived-- were they a friend of yours?"
"No." I paused, "No, I found him in the road, nearly dead. I suppose the crag cats discovered that if they are patient, they can turn one meal into two."
"You're a good man then, to try to help him. The wretches-- they left you to freeze to death."
I lost my appetite entirely.

~ ~ ~