5th of the 7th, Aecob 12

  ESTEEMED PROVOST -- I expect you imagined I would write many weeks previous, but each day was even more queer than the last, and I cannot imagine how you might react to some roughly scrawled version of the things I have endured in my haste.

  After long last, I have finally arrived at Dowager Castle, with its impeccable shining black stone, with its manicured lawn, with its imposing tower that pierces the sky -- all this despite the utter isolation of this place. The sacrifices I made to arrive here could scarcely be imagined by anyone who has not undertaken the journey themselves, and it is clear to my why none among those in the program were willing to take this post. I must chide you for taking such advantage of my ignorance of your continent. I am, of course, grateful to get into this program and to have so early a research opportunity, but the position I am in can scarcely be grasped from across the abyss that separates those who have entered the Pash mountains and emerged alive, and those who have not.

  I left Miskatonic shortly after our last conversation, on the 16th of the 5th. Despite the sweltering heat, I took advantage of the carriage you recommended, and made good time until I hit the edge of Bradfordshire County.

  At first the deepening of the cool across the border was refreshing, but cool gave way to cold, and cold gave way to cutting, frigid wind. Snow began to pile in front of me, and the team of horses was buried to the hock. Despite the deep wind, and aching snow, we were beset by swarms of biting flies. Their bites were so sharp that bits of my flesh were visibly removed leading to small trailing rivulets of blood upon the flesh, and their are as loud as their appetites are insatiable.

  I know not why, what combination of the flies and biting cold is to blame, but that very night all four of the horses fell dead. Upon waking, the snow had deepened to a meter. I was still far from any town or waystation, and so managed, with much struggle, to fashion runners for the carriage, and pull it bodily for a period of several days.

  Needless to say, I was not dressed for the weather and was in constant danger of succumbing to hypothermia. I do not remember it clearly, but when my mind had yielded to the cold, some courier witnessed me and took pity upon me, as frostbite began to take hold of my feet. Through the ministrations of his wife, I lost only two toes, and I consider myself lucky on that count. I believe I spent the better part of the month with only a thin broth of bone for my breakfast and supper.

  As a token of hospitality, the man, whose name escapes me due to the thickness of his mountain accent, took me into Bradford, and refused all offers of payment, instead invoking what I took to be some kind of reciprocal hospitality natural to the people who are native to the deeper parts of the Pash mountains.

  When arriving in Bradford, the Courier was greeted with warmth and jovial respect, and in my still pitiful state I attracted no less attention. The bounteous kindness of the town cannot be overstated in this case. Though he certainly had many letters to deliver, his bag was nearly bursting, he seemed to consider it his duty to remain with me until I was well set to consider my journey.

  I found the town to be completely devoid of horses or any other regular draft animals. Instead, the main forms of transportation are snow canoes, and sleds pulled by Snow Dogs. Now, not being in possession of any knowledge of how to operate a canoe of any kind, much less one of a snow variety, I undertook to hire a sled team.

  I quickly found that such a thing cannot be done. These dogs, and any team that they form, cannot be borrowed, not even between a husband and wife, nor indeed, between a man and his son. Always, the owner must travel with the dogs, or their "*loyalty*" must be transferred via an arcane ritual.

  Therefore, I found myself in need to *purchase* a set of dogs and a sled, at a seemingly inopportune moment. It took much convincing on behalf of The Courier for my to assemble an able enough team. The price was enough to water the eyes, and the stipend provided was not sufficient to cover it, therefore I was compelled to sell the carriage, though of course, in truth, I never owned it in the first place. But that is a stress for a more opportune moment.

  Now, as I quickly learned, a Snow Dog, despite how it may sound, should not be confused with a dog bred to master snow, and in truth could never be mistaken for one by anyone who has laid eyes upon such a fearful specimen. The dogs are invariably black haired, possessing a triple coat (which I was not aware existed prior), and look remarkably similar, being identified mainly by white markings about their face, chests, and forelegs. They stand nearly a meter in height, except for the lead dogs which are nearly 125cm.

  They have fearful mouths, which I will be forced to comment on later, to my detriment. Their eyes glow, and I do not mean from the reflections of nightly torchlight, but they show a subtle luminescence even during the highest of noon when viewed at the right angles. Their black eyes possess an unsettling intelligence, and they seem very capable of understanding human speech, both mine and that of the mountain men, and possess a means to communicate in some capacity, through a codified set of gestures and actions. I remain ignorant to how such a thing can be taught, but I shudder to think this communication could come naturally to an animal.

  I understood little of what I was told of the Snow Dogs, but pains were taken to make sure I understood certain concepts clearly. The Snow Dog does not need to be fed but instead let out of their harnesses weekly to hunt, or they will turn to eat their master. On the nights of the dark moon, they cannot be bound by chain or lash, and will loose any bound, be it stone, wrought iron, or even manacles of magic -- and on these nights, one should take pains to remain indoors. What danger is involved here was not clear, but the taboo surrounding discussing it seems to imply something that is worse than being eaten. I am truly averse to the discovery of this fact.

  For whatever superstition, and ultimately to my boon, sleds cannot be purchased, sold, or transferred for any reason. Men, it seems, are burned upon their sleds, or within their canoes. But, after the procurement of my sledding team, and perhaps upon understanding my pitiful condition, the town had a gay celebration in coats of bright and exotic colors, and collaborated to create a sled of unusual size, with a covered space, somewhat reminiscent of a wardrobe. It was covered in all manner of ointments and oils, treated with incense, and a bed of spices, leaves, and berries underneath a false floor. Symbols were carved into it with delicate care, and check and rechecked by various persons, before being painted and checked again. Huge fixtures of cold iron were used to create a series of locks. Finally, a sort of backless chair was placed inside. When the place was shown to me, I was faced with a sense of foreboding. But, the elder of the village was not content for me to view it, but insisted that I enter the chamber and learn how the mechanisms worked. Though I could not understand a word through his accent, he managed to demand from me that I practice entering the place quickly and locking it correctly, even with my eyes closed.

  That evening, the time came for "the *loyalty*". The stars ceased to twinkle, and looked down as inscrutable eyes. The ever-present wind ceased its howling. The flakes of snow ceased falling. The air was eerie and quiet. My sled was piled thickly with the silvery pelts of the Astral Bear. A whistling whine rose from underneath the earth, and sounds of digging grew louder and louder, punctuated with a droning hum. The sound built until a dog emerged from a tunnel within the earth. It came up to me, stood point, and gave a powerful bark that pained the ears, and rattled the very bones within my body. The courier motioned to me, and I finally understood to place the pelt upon the dog, revealing in that moment, that it was fashioned into a hooded cloak. And the dogs emerged one by one to rattle my bones and be cloaked by me. Then, finally, the lead dog came, and buried the tunnel. The final pelt, which I took up quickly, was cold and wet to the touch, and when I picked it up, something fell and squelched onto the ground. I placed the pelt upon the lead dog, and in an instant registered that this pelt was drenched in blood, which covered my hands. After receiving the pelt, he snatched up the meat and the dogs split it among themselves, before the lead dog returned to me, and offered to me a morsel.

  When I hesitated, he pressed the bottom of my hand upward with urgency, and I steeled myself and ate the raw flesh of dubious nature. The snow dogs, seeing me, ate theirs as well. The people there smiled and greeted me, clasping me on the shoulders, kissing my face, and even patted my head and smeared my neck with ashes. They began to drink around the bonfire, to sing call and response songs, and to dance and jump high into the air.

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  Then, finally, on the rising of the sun, the wind returned and with it snow, and I was plied with bundles of supplies, including various things that I do not know the names or the purposes of. These things were not gifted to me, but instead given in exchange for a portion of the carriage.

  Physical money is not in common use here, due to some negative connotation among them. Instead, there is a man whom they call an Accounter, who through diligent practice learns to maintain a perfect knowledge of the debts and assets of all. Not just in the town either, but indeed all of the mountain stock within his jurisdiction, among whom I am apparently now numbered.

  Upon conversing with me, and about where I might go, the Accounter paled to hear that I was set for the castle, and attempted to console me that I had no need to worry, and that he would send supplies of foods and furs and other basic things to me as long as I took to that place and had need of them, and I need not worry about it being accounted from me.

  The elder of the village regarded the sky with frustration on his brow, but despite my effort to surmise the source of his troubles, I could not come to any conclusion, and he did not move to speak to me, and so I lashed all my possessions onto the sled, placing a precious bundle underneath the seat in the compartment as required by some of the womenfolk, then I undertook my journey.

  As we went up into the pass, the snow grew deeper, often over 2 meters. After the 3rd day of journeying, a great blizzard came upon us in what seemed like an instant. I could not see my hand if it was more than an inch or so from my face. Then, the Snow Dogs began to howl.

  The most disturbing fact surrounding the Snow Dog, is it's howl. When it communicates to men, it does it by way of gesture and coordinated movements. It's voice drives deep into your bones, and works its way into your mind, and fills you with an absolute state of terror. Even those in the town, who live with such beasts every day of their lives, still tremble upon hearing it.

  Terror stricken, I did not hesitate, and did not have a single thought in my mind, but to dive into the compartment and secure the door. The sound was muted there, not so cutting, and only filled me with a deep sense of unease. Moments became minutes, and minutes became hours, and hours stretched on and on, and the dogs continued their howling in turns.

  Then, faintly, as the sun began to fall, I heard a distant whistle. In the bag that the women had given me was some kind of wind instrument, which I dug out frantically, and played a stilted note upon. The distant whistle called out again, some pattern of sound meant to send some message, to ask some question of which I was then ignorant. I made the same uncertain sound, and the whistle called back with the same sound, and the dogs fell silent. In only a few moments, I heard a man knock upon the door to my compartment, and speak in a familiar voice-- The Courier.

  Upon opening the door, I found him standing under a pelt he had draped over the door like a canopy, and affixing poles to the end of it, so that we could see one another. He wore a charming grin, and seemed pleased to see me, then explained, mainly through pantomime, that we would need to return to the village. He brought his canoe up upon the monstrous sled, and we went back. But, with his leading, it was no three days journey, but only through the night, arriving in the early hours of the morning.

  I "overwintered" there for nearly a fortnight before the storm cleared. While passing the time, the Courier made sure to teach me the basic things about the whistle-flute. How to make all the certain sounds. How to send a greeting. How to ask for help. How to answer my "name", which the town laughingly gave me, that uncertain sound which I first made. I learned to wear the whistle-flute on a cord around my neck, like a Pasher.

  The children of the village sent me off the second time with great wreathes of holly and collars of mistletoe for the snow dogs. The snow in the village was only a few inches, but quickly upon my departure it deepened to nearly 3 meters.

  It was queer -- upon the sled, I did not sink into the snow. The dogs, with their monstrous paws, left only small packed impressions, which could support my full weight, but if I stepped off I would fall deeply into the snow and be forced to dig my way out. And, now that the snow was deeper, the sled traveled more quickly.

  The pass was no great obstacle, though the windiness and wind buffeting was enough to induce nausea. That evening, the beasts were sniffing the air and it was time to let them loose. When each was freed from their harnesses, they leapt and twisted up into the air, reminiscent of some kind of fish.

  When all were free, they raced into the woods at breakneck pace without a sound to show for it. After only a few moments, there were deep growls that caused the ground to tremble, and the sound of great stamping feet accompanies by a lowing. The dogs returned triumphant, dragging a carcass of a Dire-Moose.

  The teeth of the snow dog are no better than their eyes or their howls. They are large, even larger than a 50 kilogram beast of over 1 meter in height should be in possession of. They are all curved and white, and sharp enough to quickly rend flesh. More disturbingly, it seems that they can unhinge their jaws to swallow giant chunks of flesh in seconds, all while their glowing eyes stare at you, and somehow illuminate a few centimeters ahead of them.

  I know such a thing is said to be extinct, but I swear to you upon my *loyalty* that it really was a Dire-Moose. I could not weigh it, but based on the skeleton, it stood roughly 260cm at the shoulder. The skeleton of a 700 kilogram animal, *whose bones had been picked clean* in one evening. I took with me only the Garmote, as the townfolk said it would bring me much luck, and it is accounted for much.

  And yet, the worst had not yet come. The night of darkness came upon me quickly in the evening, and the eerie quiet sent me scrambling for the compartment. There was no sound of wind, no shifting fur, or paws patting the snow, no breath. I locked the locks, unsure of what to expect, but knowing the snow dogs were no longer harnessed. I held my breath for I don't know how long, before taking small, quiet, shallow breaths. I checked all my locks, I checked them again, and then a third time. And that's when I began to hear it... a scratching upon the sled, the sound of dragging. Then nothing for some time, then the scratching came closer and closer, before stopping again abruptly, and more dragging. Then, finally the scratching came to the door, big long powerful scratches trying to dig through the solid old growth of the door, a rattling of the door's knob, and a yanking. Then, nothing.

  I slept not one single moment in those three days of the dark moon, and will not recount any other thing that happened in those day, however long I may live.

  The snow continued to deepen. After it became 4 meters deep, I stopped leaving the sled, except using the pawprints of the beasts. Since those 3 days had passed, I could not view the snow dogs the same way again, but they did not share the feeling, and had developed a deeper affection and care for me, often bringing me small living animals, such as mice, varieties of birds, and on one occasion a hibernating snake, as well as various trinkets such as a broken compass, a carved whistle-flute, and even a lock of braided hair.

  Finally, we came upon the estate. I knew we were close, and yet when we came across onto it, there could be no mistaking it.

  As we approached the edge of the estate, the dogs slowed, and I began to feel what can only be described as pinpricks in the back of my mind. I was filled with a sense of foreboding and hesitation as I studied the abruptness of the boundary: The wind ceased, the biting flies were no more. The snow quickly dissipated into a light dusting, the grass visible underneath.

  I pushed across the boundary slowly, and upon entrance to the estate, I was filled with a great sense of relief. The dogs, loosened from their harnesses frolicked and napped in the sun, but seemed unwilling to cross again over the edge of the estate.

  Your description did Dowager Castle no justice. It is clear you have never been to this place, nor indeed known anyone who has.

  There is no doubt in my mind that the entire grounds of Miskatonic could comfortably fit inside the giant footprint of the castle proper. The trees appear withered, but upon closer inspections, the grooves in the bark are colonized by all matter of insects which grow small flowers on their back, smaller than even the smallest nail on my hand. The grass is not of one kind, but each blade seemingly comes from a different variety. Some are the warm, wholesome green of home. Some are the silvery-blue of the windswept country. Others are amber, or withered, and there are even a few stalks of a tall kind laden with fat red grains that the dogs enjoy jumping in the air to snatch and eat.

  I was filled with too much trepidation to enter the castle proper, and indeed still am. A package from the town preceded me, and rested on the side-step that led directly into the tower. The oilskin covering the goods was tied with a rough string, and covered with symbols of some kind, but not similar to the ones that cover the inside of the compartment.

  Now, for whatever reason, I was under the impression that there were 10 boxes of manuscripts to be catalogued and transcribed. Imagine my surprise when I opened the door to the tower, and was greeted by floor to ceiling towers of paper, with scarcely room to squeeze sideways up the stairs. And these "boxes" were in truth giant mesh crates of some description.

  Needless to say, 4-5 months is completely insufficient to accomplish the task at hand, and I am faint simply from the idea of seeing if there are more manuscripts outside the tower.

  Further, more supplies of paper and ink will be required, as an increase stipend as well, if you were serious in your desire for the documents to all be standardized via the typing machine you sent with me.

  I have skimmed the top of the first crate, and the contents of The Magister's writings are more varied and bizarre than you were previously lead to believe. I have sent this letter directly via The Courier who somehow arrived here before me to deliver the package I had spoken of. I have sent it directly, before my first night has begun, and so I unfortunately do not send you any documents, however I can send you a brief description of what I have seen: various long excerpts of some fictional stories, some of which seem connected (especially concerning a Princess called "Katarina"), and some of which do not; a few treatises concerning the nature of reality; disorganized snippets scrawled onto the odd broadsheet; as well as journals of various persuasions.

  Please be sure to settle the matter with the horse and carriage, as so much has happened that I can scarcely recall something that happened in such a distant past and in such a faraway place.

  Kindly, Compiler.