Encounterlogs
Solomons Odd Encounter Sr Leo
Solomon, en route to work, encounters a seemingly distressed boy named Shelomith Segal, claiming he can't find his mother. Suspicious and cautious, Solomon engages him, inquiring about his mother and prompting for more information. The boy lures Solomon to an eerie, dilapidated manor, where he fabricates the sounds of a woman screaming for help before vanishing inside. Solomon, suspecting something amiss, declines to enter the haunted building and instead opts to contact the authorities. However, the ghostly presence of Shelomith reveals itself by pulling the boy inside and then taunting Solomon with inexplicable and menacing phenomena such as doors slamming and windows shuttering.
Intrigued by the power at play, Solomon engages with the entity, offering assistance instead of becoming a victim. He enters the manor with confidence, only to find the exit bricked up behind him. Inside, he meets the entity, now presenting as an older, sinister-looking version of the boy, who proposes an exchange: Solomon's continued sustenance for the spirit in return for the removal of a burdensome relative. Solomon declines the macabre offer and counters by suggesting to provide his enemies as nourishment instead. After negotiating a mutually beneficial agreement wherein Solomon will deliver his foes to the spirit once a month for three months, he finds himself abruptly and mysteriously back outside his workplace, unharmed but vividly marked by the intense encounter. Solomon coolly acknowledges the pact and welcomes Shelomith to join forces in the unseen world of occult power and damnation.
(Solomon's odd encounter(SRLeo):SRLeo)
[Sun Jan 14 2024]
In the Black Suite of the Hotel Antlers
This bedroom emanates opulence through meticulous design choices,
characterized by a sophisticated interplay of black and silver tones. Antique silver sconces adorn the walls, casting a soft and luxurious glow, while a black crystal chandelier provides a haunting effect throughout the entire room.
The wide bay window is draped in elegant folds of layered sheer black curtains that allow low light inside while still affording occupants privacy, and the ink black carpet underfoot is lush and meticulously maintained.
The air carries a subtle fragrance, a blend of elusive columbine and the understated richness of polished mahogany furniture.
It is night, about 35F(1C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waxing crescent moon.
(Your target comes upon a seemingly innocent and lost child, who is in reality a powerful and malevolent ghost. They must discover the truth and find a way to either banish the spirit or help it find peace.)
SRLeo says "Salut. "
Solomon is doing his thing, heading to work. He parks his car, steps out of the vehicle and... is approached by a nine year old boy. "Mr. Inigo, I can't find my mother." Says the boy, through puffy eyes. He tries to put on a show of toughness... but anyone watching can tell he's not. Not at all tough. It's in his body language and the redness.
There's a tilt of Solomon's head, turning to look at the boy, and then Solomon leans on his cane. "Why," he says to the young man. "That's terrible." He pauses, and then there is a brief knitting of his brows. "What's your name, young man?" He squats down a little, to be at the nine-year-old's eye level.
"Shelomith." There's another sniff. "Shelomith Segal." Shelomith. Hebrew. Maybe Solomon can identify what that means, maybe he can't, but there was a few Shelomiths mentioned in the bible somewhere. Must come from a religious family. He rubs at an eye tiredly as he glances around, flickering gaze from one direction to another before landing back on Solomon.
"Well, young Mr. Segal," Solomon tells the boy. It's a pause, low. "Where did you see your mother last? What's her phone number?" Nine-year-olds have their parents' numbers, in 2024 -- when they don't have a cell phone of their own. "What were you doing when you lost her?"
"I was... I was hanging out here." Says the kid, tugging at Solomon's arm to bring him along. Should he follow, the boy would bring him to a house that was nice. Once upon a time ago, got a very old timey manor feel to it. Windows have been boarded up. Paint's chipping off. THere's a few vines here and there. "I-" He pauses, frowning for a moment. Face paling. "Do you hear that? She's screaming for help, help, Mister Inigo!" And he turns to run into the house.
"I do not." Solomon's eyes are suspicious, now, behind dark glasses, as he straightens. "Young man," he tells the young man. "I hear nothing. Let's get you to the Haven Sheriff's Department, shall we?" he says, digging for his phone to dial 911. "They'll be able to help you out."
Shelomith turns to address Solomon, opening his mouth as he reaches the door. Only for the door to swing wide open and for the boy to be pulled in by something not there. The door slams shut moments after, before opening up again and closing. It repeats this, as if taunting Solomon.
Now, that's something interesting. Solomon pauses, and he begins to chant, his voice low. "Spirit," he says. "Reveal thyself: for whatever they desire, I may be able to satisfy."
The windows start opening and closing now, before finally it all stops. All is still, the door wide open. A red carpet runs out of the doorway before Solomon. Like he's the star of the show. Or... a tongue.
"Oh, come now," Solomon tells the house. "I am not your victim: I'm your salvation," he tells the thing. "What is it you want?" he asks. "Victims? They can be provided," he says. "More energy to feed upon?" he says. "We can create all the fear you need. No:" He pauses. "What I want to know is what you can offer -me-."
Dust swirls around to spell a few words out onto the carpet before Solomon "Come inside. We can talk in there."
The ancient sorcerer is not, in the scheme of things, terribly concerned about a poltergeist: his interest is power. It is always power, as Solomon steps inside the house. "Well," he tells the empty air. "I doubt somehow you have wine: but tell Solomon Inigo what you desire." Behind his dark glasses, his eyes flash red. "The Devil always provides."
Solomon would step inside. And the doorway turns into bricks. Actual bricks. Not an illusion... he can *feel* the roughness of the material. A voice... soft. Dark. And malevolent, as malevolent as Solomon himself says from somewhere deeper within: "So that we would not be interrupted. Step further, into my parlor." A door swings open.
Again, inside the parlor, cane tap-tapping on the floor. "Now then," Solomon says. "Tell me what it is you need?" A smile, something sinister. "Inigo and Wilson have been serving clients -- alive or dead -- for over a century," he says. "We have very reasonable retainers."
A young boy. Shelomith, rematerializes. Slowly, into existence. Something's different though. His eyes are completely black. A dark fluid with the quality of blood, but the coloration of oil, dripping from those eyes and his lips. His form shifts into an older version of the boy, dressed like a gent from the days of yore. "One... such as you... could sustain me for years. Centuries, even." Says the man, licking his lips. "And believe me... I can take you. That said... we can... come to some kind of agreement, I do believe. Some mutually beneficial arrangement."
"Son," Solomon tells the young boy. There's a moment: some consideration of threat, clearly, as the old sorcerer seems less than impressed by the boy's. He decides to take the higher road. "I am in the business of making arrangements," he says, his basso voice echoing. "Should I call you Shelomith? Or is there some other name you prefer?"
"Shelomith will do." Says the dusky skinned young man, a man, now before Solomon. "Feed me one of your siblings. Your daughters. Your sons. I will accept that- you get a burden taken off of your hands. I grow stronger."
He pauses, and adds, "And I won't need to feed for a while."
"I'm not going to do that," Solomon tells the young man urbanely. "I am invested in my family: but if you need someone powerful to feed off, I can arrange that." He pauses. "Someone with power, even: but I ask," he says. "This is a contract, Shelomith: what power do -I- see at the end of this?" There's a moment. "Powerful or not, you are the spirit of the unquiet dead. With a word, I can banish you to the graveyard."
"Ha... ha... ha... ha... ha.." His mouth opens. But no sound comes out. Instead, it comes from around the surroundings, the very house's bones shaking. Dust falling, cracks forming along the ceiling. "But how many of us can you banish, before you go to the grave? Your life force leeched by your own incantations? Hmmm, sorcerer? Hmm, o, king of Haven?" It could very well be a bluff. It is probably a bluff. "Family... is a burden. A distraction. But... very well. Give me your enemies."
"If you swear to me that you will consume my enemies," Solomon tells the voices, "I will deliver them." He smiles, his eyes bright. "That is the sort of mutual contract I can agree to," he says. He strikes his cane upon the ground, and there is some low thundercrack of arcane power. "It is done," he says. "Once a month, for the next three months, I will bring you those who need to disappear from this world."
"The deal is done." Books fall from their shelves, despite Shelomith not moving a muscle. They open and close, pages being rattled before torn out. The pages swirl around Solomon. He feels them... cutting into his skin. He feels them... despite all of his protections. Despite the safety of luck on his side. They swirl and grow in numbers, adding more cuts until there is nothing in sight. When they stop- he's back right in front of his job site. Just on time. Vehicle parked nearby. Everything's in order. He's injured in no way, no shape, no form. But still he feels the sting. Still he smells the must of the old house.
There is a smile, low, that spreads across Solomon's features: every occult transaction some little more breath of power. "It is done," he repeats to himself, and then, to the empty air: "Welcome to damnation, Shelomith. You'll find friends, here." With that, he is stepping inside his office, checking for the next appointment on his calendar.
Intrigued by the power at play, Solomon engages with the entity, offering assistance instead of becoming a victim. He enters the manor with confidence, only to find the exit bricked up behind him. Inside, he meets the entity, now presenting as an older, sinister-looking version of the boy, who proposes an exchange: Solomon's continued sustenance for the spirit in return for the removal of a burdensome relative. Solomon declines the macabre offer and counters by suggesting to provide his enemies as nourishment instead. After negotiating a mutually beneficial agreement wherein Solomon will deliver his foes to the spirit once a month for three months, he finds himself abruptly and mysteriously back outside his workplace, unharmed but vividly marked by the intense encounter. Solomon coolly acknowledges the pact and welcomes Shelomith to join forces in the unseen world of occult power and damnation.
(Solomon's odd encounter(SRLeo):SRLeo)
[Sun Jan 14 2024]
In the Black Suite of the Hotel Antlers
This bedroom emanates opulence through meticulous design choices,
characterized by a sophisticated interplay of black and silver tones. Antique silver sconces adorn the walls, casting a soft and luxurious glow, while a black crystal chandelier provides a haunting effect throughout the entire room.
The wide bay window is draped in elegant folds of layered sheer black curtains that allow low light inside while still affording occupants privacy, and the ink black carpet underfoot is lush and meticulously maintained.
The air carries a subtle fragrance, a blend of elusive columbine and the understated richness of polished mahogany furniture.
It is night, about 35F(1C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waxing crescent moon.
(Your target comes upon a seemingly innocent and lost child, who is in reality a powerful and malevolent ghost. They must discover the truth and find a way to either banish the spirit or help it find peace.)
SRLeo says "Salut. "
Solomon is doing his thing, heading to work. He parks his car, steps out of the vehicle and... is approached by a nine year old boy. "Mr. Inigo, I can't find my mother." Says the boy, through puffy eyes. He tries to put on a show of toughness... but anyone watching can tell he's not. Not at all tough. It's in his body language and the redness.
There's a tilt of Solomon's head, turning to look at the boy, and then Solomon leans on his cane. "Why," he says to the young man. "That's terrible." He pauses, and then there is a brief knitting of his brows. "What's your name, young man?" He squats down a little, to be at the nine-year-old's eye level.
"Shelomith." There's another sniff. "Shelomith Segal." Shelomith. Hebrew. Maybe Solomon can identify what that means, maybe he can't, but there was a few Shelomiths mentioned in the bible somewhere. Must come from a religious family. He rubs at an eye tiredly as he glances around, flickering gaze from one direction to another before landing back on Solomon.
"Well, young Mr. Segal," Solomon tells the boy. It's a pause, low. "Where did you see your mother last? What's her phone number?" Nine-year-olds have their parents' numbers, in 2024 -- when they don't have a cell phone of their own. "What were you doing when you lost her?"
"I was... I was hanging out here." Says the kid, tugging at Solomon's arm to bring him along. Should he follow, the boy would bring him to a house that was nice. Once upon a time ago, got a very old timey manor feel to it. Windows have been boarded up. Paint's chipping off. THere's a few vines here and there. "I-" He pauses, frowning for a moment. Face paling. "Do you hear that? She's screaming for help, help, Mister Inigo!" And he turns to run into the house.
"I do not." Solomon's eyes are suspicious, now, behind dark glasses, as he straightens. "Young man," he tells the young man. "I hear nothing. Let's get you to the Haven Sheriff's Department, shall we?" he says, digging for his phone to dial 911. "They'll be able to help you out."
Shelomith turns to address Solomon, opening his mouth as he reaches the door. Only for the door to swing wide open and for the boy to be pulled in by something not there. The door slams shut moments after, before opening up again and closing. It repeats this, as if taunting Solomon.
Now, that's something interesting. Solomon pauses, and he begins to chant, his voice low. "Spirit," he says. "Reveal thyself: for whatever they desire, I may be able to satisfy."
The windows start opening and closing now, before finally it all stops. All is still, the door wide open. A red carpet runs out of the doorway before Solomon. Like he's the star of the show. Or... a tongue.
"Oh, come now," Solomon tells the house. "I am not your victim: I'm your salvation," he tells the thing. "What is it you want?" he asks. "Victims? They can be provided," he says. "More energy to feed upon?" he says. "We can create all the fear you need. No:" He pauses. "What I want to know is what you can offer -me-."
Dust swirls around to spell a few words out onto the carpet before Solomon "Come inside. We can talk in there."
The ancient sorcerer is not, in the scheme of things, terribly concerned about a poltergeist: his interest is power. It is always power, as Solomon steps inside the house. "Well," he tells the empty air. "I doubt somehow you have wine: but tell Solomon Inigo what you desire." Behind his dark glasses, his eyes flash red. "The Devil always provides."
Solomon would step inside. And the doorway turns into bricks. Actual bricks. Not an illusion... he can *feel* the roughness of the material. A voice... soft. Dark. And malevolent, as malevolent as Solomon himself says from somewhere deeper within: "So that we would not be interrupted. Step further, into my parlor." A door swings open.
Again, inside the parlor, cane tap-tapping on the floor. "Now then," Solomon says. "Tell me what it is you need?" A smile, something sinister. "Inigo and Wilson have been serving clients -- alive or dead -- for over a century," he says. "We have very reasonable retainers."
A young boy. Shelomith, rematerializes. Slowly, into existence. Something's different though. His eyes are completely black. A dark fluid with the quality of blood, but the coloration of oil, dripping from those eyes and his lips. His form shifts into an older version of the boy, dressed like a gent from the days of yore. "One... such as you... could sustain me for years. Centuries, even." Says the man, licking his lips. "And believe me... I can take you. That said... we can... come to some kind of agreement, I do believe. Some mutually beneficial arrangement."
"Son," Solomon tells the young boy. There's a moment: some consideration of threat, clearly, as the old sorcerer seems less than impressed by the boy's. He decides to take the higher road. "I am in the business of making arrangements," he says, his basso voice echoing. "Should I call you Shelomith? Or is there some other name you prefer?"
"Shelomith will do." Says the dusky skinned young man, a man, now before Solomon. "Feed me one of your siblings. Your daughters. Your sons. I will accept that- you get a burden taken off of your hands. I grow stronger."
He pauses, and adds, "And I won't need to feed for a while."
"I'm not going to do that," Solomon tells the young man urbanely. "I am invested in my family: but if you need someone powerful to feed off, I can arrange that." He pauses. "Someone with power, even: but I ask," he says. "This is a contract, Shelomith: what power do -I- see at the end of this?" There's a moment. "Powerful or not, you are the spirit of the unquiet dead. With a word, I can banish you to the graveyard."
"Ha... ha... ha... ha... ha.." His mouth opens. But no sound comes out. Instead, it comes from around the surroundings, the very house's bones shaking. Dust falling, cracks forming along the ceiling. "But how many of us can you banish, before you go to the grave? Your life force leeched by your own incantations? Hmmm, sorcerer? Hmm, o, king of Haven?" It could very well be a bluff. It is probably a bluff. "Family... is a burden. A distraction. But... very well. Give me your enemies."
"If you swear to me that you will consume my enemies," Solomon tells the voices, "I will deliver them." He smiles, his eyes bright. "That is the sort of mutual contract I can agree to," he says. He strikes his cane upon the ground, and there is some low thundercrack of arcane power. "It is done," he says. "Once a month, for the next three months, I will bring you those who need to disappear from this world."
"The deal is done." Books fall from their shelves, despite Shelomith not moving a muscle. They open and close, pages being rattled before torn out. The pages swirl around Solomon. He feels them... cutting into his skin. He feels them... despite all of his protections. Despite the safety of luck on his side. They swirl and grow in numbers, adding more cuts until there is nothing in sight. When they stop- he's back right in front of his job site. Just on time. Vehicle parked nearby. Everything's in order. He's injured in no way, no shape, no form. But still he feels the sting. Still he smells the must of the old house.
There is a smile, low, that spreads across Solomon's features: every occult transaction some little more breath of power. "It is done," he repeats to himself, and then, to the empty air: "Welcome to damnation, Shelomith. You'll find friends, here." With that, he is stepping inside his office, checking for the next appointment on his calendar.