Encounterlogs
Solomons Odd Encounter Sr Miles 240306
In a tense late-night encounter at Elm Street Apartments in Haventown, Autumn and Solomon confront a group of accountants conducting an illegal operation, under the guise of a tax investigation, powered by an amateurish magical abacus. The confrontational standoff begins with a blend of intimidation and legal acumen, primarily wielded by Solomon, a well-suited lawyer with connections stretching into the town's corrupt sheriff and the high echelons of the regional justice system. With a mix of threats and legal loopholes, they manage to unsettle the accountants, leading to their hasty retreat, all while revealing the misuse of a federal writ and a lack of proper legal procedure in their operation.
The resolution comes swiftly as Solomon and Autumn, driven by a desire to root out the source of the magical disturbance, focus on destroying the enchanted abacus found among the accountants' belongings. Despite the crude and unartistic nature of the magic, Solomon draws upon his vast experience and occult knowledge, conducting a ritual that culminates in the physical destruction of the abacus. This act not only dissipates the corrupt magic but also marks the end of the immediate threat posed by the illegal operation. In the aftermath of their victory, Solomon's offhand comment about washing hands in the blood of their foes adds a darkly humorous note to the evening's events, encapsulating their readiness to counter any menace—legal, illicit, or magical—that Haventown presents.
(Autumn's odd encounter(SRMiles):SRMiles)
[Tue Mar 5 2024]
In the lobby
It is night, about 37F(2C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a waning crescent moon.
"I see," Autumn speaks, slowky nodding her head while she takes a glance around. "Although I believe it will not be easy if the Redemption group convinces everyone that we are bad even though we are trying to prevent world's end." She then continues concentrating for any traces of magic around the complex.
Solomon and Autumn are at the Elm Street Apartments, having scouted it via nightmare and investigate. Now they wait for the manager. There's a look of some displeasure on the well-suited layer's face.
It's late night in Haventown, but that doesn't mean that the town is any less busy than it might normally be. Not only is it a hive of monsters that lurk in the dark, international illegal immigrants, and in a less than welcome change, a bunch of IRS agents working around the clock. It's an unusual work ethic, to be sure.
It's to that place that Solomon heads, then, Autumn in tow -- with a low, rap-rap-rap upon the door, waiting.
It's hard to miss the magic, it scratches at the back of Autumn's mind like a particularly feisty squirrel. A low hum that comes from one of the rooms normally kept for conventions and business of that sort. Eventually, after far too long for an Inigo to wait, the manager starts toward them, just in time to intercept the pair at the door, "Good evening, apologies for the wait." He's not a fancy man, this is Elm Street, after all. He's wiping chicken grease from his fingers as he speaks.
"Hello," Autumn greets the manager with a small grin until she senses the hum. She turns her head towards the rooms and focuses even more to make sure.
The rap-rap-rap doesn't go answered, at least not immediately. Those with keen senses may hear the shuffle of movement inside of the room, and a low hum of chatter over a walkie-talkie, though eventually footsteps start toward the door.
"Leave us be," Solomon tells the manager. "This is the sort of business you don't want to be involved in." There's some low thrum of power in his voice -- shades still on, even as he turns, and waits, impatient for the door. The sense of impatient frustration is high, shifting, back and forth like a coiled snake.
"Well, I'll just let you fine folk be!" The manager chirps back, turning on the spot to shuffle off toward the office, and his outstanding meal of delicious, delicious Kentucky fried chicken.
There's an unlatching sound that comes from the room, though it's only the deadbolt and not the other lock. The type that lets you open the door a wee bit without quite giving up the illusion of safety. It opens, just a fraction, and a crack, and an eye appears in the space behind. There is a face too. That's where the eye is. In the face. "..You the Uber?" The tired looking man inside asks, looking like the colour beige come to life.
Resting her arms behind her back, Autumn turns to face the door and looks at the tiny opening. "We are here for business," she speaks while her grin fades. "My business partner wants to meet with you."
The illusion of safety is correct -- Solomon's hand goes to the door, and there's some pressure on it. It is perhaps stronger pressure than the man on the other side is prepared to handle. "As she says," he says. "We are not the Uber." He pauses. "Your operation is done here," he tells the man. "We can do that easily or not." It's a pause -- some glance beyond into the shadowed space through the crack in the door.
"Here for busin-" The man starts to respond back to Autumn, clearly confused by her. If her words were an attempt to further lower his guard before Solomon pressed against the door, then it worked. The chain snaps, easily quite frankly, beneath the heavy hand of the demonborn, causing the door to jerk forward and strike the beige man in the face. He stumbles back, clutching at his ruined nose as the others in the room turn toward the commotion, as it were. They're like a collection of greys, really. Barely human. Worse. Accountants. None of them are armed with anything but their wits, accounting degrees, and the endless appetite for crunching numbers.
"What the hell." The broken-nosed man utters out, though it sounds far more snuffy, probably like, "Ouat nee ell?" Then he gestures at another coworker, "Call the cops."
"You do know that there will be consequences from your operation here," Autumn tells the man as she peeks into the room. "Why are you all in town? Please cooperate with us nicely without any calls for cops."
"You're welcome to call the Sheriff," Solomon tells the men, digging for his phone. "Actually -- better yet, let me," he says. "I saw him at dinner on Saturday, along with my cousin the mayor. You can tell them Solomon Inigo says hello." He pauses. "Gentlemen," he says. "Your federal writ runs a little dry in Haven -- it is a different sort of law that rules here," he says. "And if you'd like to pursue the matter in court?" A pause. "Well: I've already lodged the case," he tells them. "I know and you know that this business is off the books," he says. "And you are all of you tools," he says to them. "My level of interest in you is low," he says. "I am happy to break you all, but I am much happier for you to leave -- then I can deal with the source of your enterprise."
"Yeah, the consequences are going to be that some tax-cheat is going away for a long time," The broken-nosed beigeman becomes to explain to Autumn with a huff, as the others awkwardly start to stand up from their work stations. There's a little mobile base of sorts set up in the room, stacks of document and devices stuffed into the place, and humming. There's an extra hum, in particular, heard by those attuned with the frequency of magic. Something that grazes and rubs against the grain. A itty bitty spell at work, and judging from the quality, probably bought from some hedgewizard down on their luck.
"Solom-" The fellow starts to echo back, recognition dawning in his dulled eyes, and newly bruised features, "Hey, you really can't be here. You can't be here! That's.. molestation of an ongoing investigation." That's probably not the wrong term.
"What you're looking for is 'obstruction of justice'," Solomon shares with the man. "That's 18 USC 1503. Molestation is something else entirely," he says. "I can do that, though. I don't think it's going to be as pleasant as you imagine it." He looks around -- there's the scent of magic, and he tilts his head.
"Unless you want to risk wrath from Mister Inigo, I suggest you cooperate and seize before things get worse," Autumn says to the man, turning to focus for the source of the magic. "And I prefer no mess. There could also be chance that you may be falsely tipped which led to this ongoing investigation?"
"Jesus christ, are you -threatening- us?" That seems to snap the man out of his befuddled, and flustered state, his eyebrows disappearing into his also rapidly disappearing hairline as he stares at Autumn. His gaze jerks back to Solomon, the lawyer, then, and once more back upon the young woman. "Yeah, I know it was obstruction! You get out of here, you're going to be charged with tampering and intimidation when I get a judge on the line."
"Tampering is a crime," Solomon shares with the man. "That one's different, though." He pauses. "Right now I'm doing a little bit more educating than threatening, don't you think?" he suggests. "It's as if someone should have brought a lawyer into this -- which is, mind you, another deficiency with your warrant. The Justice Manual requires it be signed off by an AUSA," he says. "I called up to Boston -- I'm friends with the First Assistant, you see -- and they never saw it." He's on a roll. "And then of course the Manual also requires any tax investigation to have sign-off from the Tax Division, and guess what?" A spreading smile. "Again, peanuts. Now," he says. "Perhaps that's not going to fall on you. But on the other hand..." A low pause. "Perhaps all of Heaven is going to fall on you. What is it they say? Fiat Justia, Ruit Caelum?"
Well, it's clear that the accountant doesn't have a law degree, because he doesn't even try to argue back this time. He just squints, slowly, eyes narrowing as blood drip-drip-drips from his nose and onto his shirt. Then, he starts to try and close the door in Solomon and Autumn's faces, clearly giving up on arguing with the pair and just trying to shut them back out.
"What Mister Inigo said," Autumn tells the man while having to take in Solomon's explanation. "I am pursuer of justice and-" Upon seeing the man attempting to close the door, she puffs her cheeks. "You know it is rude to shut door to someone while they are speaking. Wouldn't you not want to know that something could be malfunctioning in that room?"
A step, forward, and Solomon opens the door. This is a smooth motion -- but it is also, perhaps, an unstoppable one, entering the room entirely. "We'll repeat," he says easily. "You can leave, and we can take this matter to your superiors, and work it out with them." He pauses. "That's the wise choice," he says. "Or we can take some other road."
The door starts to close, right in their faces, but then it stops. Rather than closing, the door pushes back, or rather Solomon does, and the weedy accountant is just slid across the carpet like he's nothing. The man blinks, blances, and then with a glance at his coworkers there seems to be a consensus reached. They all, the lot of them, three others plus broken-nose, turn and try to flee past Solomon and Autumn, and into the night, abandoning their work and the evidence they'd collected thus far as they try to escape. "Call the cops!" Can be heard.
Stepping into the room, Autumn squints her eyes as she says, "If you call cops, there is chance you will also all be arrested. Also, use ice to cool that nose!" She then examines the work left behind while she hums quietly. "So was what they are investigating true?" she wonders of Solomon. "I do not know much about taxes and all that stuff."
Solomon is happy to oblige -- calling the Sheriff, the corrupt, Haven sheriff, to let them know the IRS is on their way out of town. There's a look over at Autumn. "Cowards," he tells her. "But then what's to expect? Close the door. There's some magic here -- let's find it and destroy it before it reasserts itself in some ugly way." Once she closes the door, he begins to chant, something low. He looks back at Autumn. "We pay our taxes," he says. "Though most of our custom isn't exactly financial."
It isn't difficult to find the source of this off-kilter frequency, not for someone as experienced as Solomon. Never let it be said that he didn't get a good deal for whatever parts of himself he's sold off over the years.
There's a hum that draws attention, one of the evidence boxes stacked in the corner. Judging by the details scrawled upon it in a messy hand, it's likely the first to have been filled.
With a nod, Autumn turns to shut the door before she focuses again. "I see," she replies, sensing the hum after a while and browses around until she reaches the corner. "Last thing we need is pile of cursed work."
Digging through the pile, Solomon begins to scan for occult objects. "I would prefer to be done with this tonight," he tells Autumn. With his experience -- well. Such enchanted things are plain to the ancient sorcerer.
To be fair, it sort of stands out. Amidst the files, and reports, one of which contains a clipping of a death certificate for what must've been an ancestor of Solomon's with the same name, there is an abacus. It's old, and out of place, and sticky to the touch. The magic woven into it hums without subtley or class, really. It's a hodgepodge of a job. A meat and potatoes sort of magic. There's no artistry to it.
"This could be it," Autumn speaks, digging into the files until her hand gets caught in something sticky. "We can burn it or break it. Burning it would cause alarm to go off so let's try to break it." She then pulls out her hand from the pile and looks down to find the sticky abacus.
"Indeed," Solomon agrees with Autumn. The abacus comes out, and then he begins to sketch, quickly, a little ritual circle on the ground. "In the center," he tells her, as he begins to chant -- it's a low invocation, summoning the spirits he serves to send their servants to give him strength. Strength -- and magic -- only for him to crush the abacus under his foot at the chant's conclusion.
"Okay." Bringing the abacus, Autumn takes it to the ritual circle and places it right in the center. "I'm going to need to wash my hands after this," she murmurs with a glance at her hands.
"I think I may wash them in Miles Hull's blood," Solomon shares with Autumn.
Sometimes brute force is more than enough, even if it may've been some slight overkill this evening. The edge of the magic woven into the object was fraying, like a stitch, and those frayed parts might be plucked to undo it. Never-the-less, the abacus and the wholesale spell woven into it break beneath Solomon's heel, like so many other discarded toys and playthings in his past, no doubt. There's a blip, and then that off-kilter frequency of the spell begins to fade into nothingness.
The resolution comes swiftly as Solomon and Autumn, driven by a desire to root out the source of the magical disturbance, focus on destroying the enchanted abacus found among the accountants' belongings. Despite the crude and unartistic nature of the magic, Solomon draws upon his vast experience and occult knowledge, conducting a ritual that culminates in the physical destruction of the abacus. This act not only dissipates the corrupt magic but also marks the end of the immediate threat posed by the illegal operation. In the aftermath of their victory, Solomon's offhand comment about washing hands in the blood of their foes adds a darkly humorous note to the evening's events, encapsulating their readiness to counter any menace—legal, illicit, or magical—that Haventown presents.
(Autumn's odd encounter(SRMiles):SRMiles)
[Tue Mar 5 2024]
In the lobby
It is night, about 37F(2C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a waning crescent moon.
"I see," Autumn speaks, slowky nodding her head while she takes a glance around. "Although I believe it will not be easy if the Redemption group convinces everyone that we are bad even though we are trying to prevent world's end." She then continues concentrating for any traces of magic around the complex.
Solomon and Autumn are at the Elm Street Apartments, having scouted it via nightmare and investigate. Now they wait for the manager. There's a look of some displeasure on the well-suited layer's face.
It's late night in Haventown, but that doesn't mean that the town is any less busy than it might normally be. Not only is it a hive of monsters that lurk in the dark, international illegal immigrants, and in a less than welcome change, a bunch of IRS agents working around the clock. It's an unusual work ethic, to be sure.
It's to that place that Solomon heads, then, Autumn in tow -- with a low, rap-rap-rap upon the door, waiting.
It's hard to miss the magic, it scratches at the back of Autumn's mind like a particularly feisty squirrel. A low hum that comes from one of the rooms normally kept for conventions and business of that sort. Eventually, after far too long for an Inigo to wait, the manager starts toward them, just in time to intercept the pair at the door, "Good evening, apologies for the wait." He's not a fancy man, this is Elm Street, after all. He's wiping chicken grease from his fingers as he speaks.
"Hello," Autumn greets the manager with a small grin until she senses the hum. She turns her head towards the rooms and focuses even more to make sure.
The rap-rap-rap doesn't go answered, at least not immediately. Those with keen senses may hear the shuffle of movement inside of the room, and a low hum of chatter over a walkie-talkie, though eventually footsteps start toward the door.
"Leave us be," Solomon tells the manager. "This is the sort of business you don't want to be involved in." There's some low thrum of power in his voice -- shades still on, even as he turns, and waits, impatient for the door. The sense of impatient frustration is high, shifting, back and forth like a coiled snake.
"Well, I'll just let you fine folk be!" The manager chirps back, turning on the spot to shuffle off toward the office, and his outstanding meal of delicious, delicious Kentucky fried chicken.
There's an unlatching sound that comes from the room, though it's only the deadbolt and not the other lock. The type that lets you open the door a wee bit without quite giving up the illusion of safety. It opens, just a fraction, and a crack, and an eye appears in the space behind. There is a face too. That's where the eye is. In the face. "..You the Uber?" The tired looking man inside asks, looking like the colour beige come to life.
Resting her arms behind her back, Autumn turns to face the door and looks at the tiny opening. "We are here for business," she speaks while her grin fades. "My business partner wants to meet with you."
The illusion of safety is correct -- Solomon's hand goes to the door, and there's some pressure on it. It is perhaps stronger pressure than the man on the other side is prepared to handle. "As she says," he says. "We are not the Uber." He pauses. "Your operation is done here," he tells the man. "We can do that easily or not." It's a pause -- some glance beyond into the shadowed space through the crack in the door.
"Here for busin-" The man starts to respond back to Autumn, clearly confused by her. If her words were an attempt to further lower his guard before Solomon pressed against the door, then it worked. The chain snaps, easily quite frankly, beneath the heavy hand of the demonborn, causing the door to jerk forward and strike the beige man in the face. He stumbles back, clutching at his ruined nose as the others in the room turn toward the commotion, as it were. They're like a collection of greys, really. Barely human. Worse. Accountants. None of them are armed with anything but their wits, accounting degrees, and the endless appetite for crunching numbers.
"What the hell." The broken-nosed man utters out, though it sounds far more snuffy, probably like, "Ouat nee ell?" Then he gestures at another coworker, "Call the cops."
"You do know that there will be consequences from your operation here," Autumn tells the man as she peeks into the room. "Why are you all in town? Please cooperate with us nicely without any calls for cops."
"You're welcome to call the Sheriff," Solomon tells the men, digging for his phone. "Actually -- better yet, let me," he says. "I saw him at dinner on Saturday, along with my cousin the mayor. You can tell them Solomon Inigo says hello." He pauses. "Gentlemen," he says. "Your federal writ runs a little dry in Haven -- it is a different sort of law that rules here," he says. "And if you'd like to pursue the matter in court?" A pause. "Well: I've already lodged the case," he tells them. "I know and you know that this business is off the books," he says. "And you are all of you tools," he says to them. "My level of interest in you is low," he says. "I am happy to break you all, but I am much happier for you to leave -- then I can deal with the source of your enterprise."
"Yeah, the consequences are going to be that some tax-cheat is going away for a long time," The broken-nosed beigeman becomes to explain to Autumn with a huff, as the others awkwardly start to stand up from their work stations. There's a little mobile base of sorts set up in the room, stacks of document and devices stuffed into the place, and humming. There's an extra hum, in particular, heard by those attuned with the frequency of magic. Something that grazes and rubs against the grain. A itty bitty spell at work, and judging from the quality, probably bought from some hedgewizard down on their luck.
"Solom-" The fellow starts to echo back, recognition dawning in his dulled eyes, and newly bruised features, "Hey, you really can't be here. You can't be here! That's.. molestation of an ongoing investigation." That's probably not the wrong term.
"What you're looking for is 'obstruction of justice'," Solomon shares with the man. "That's 18 USC 1503. Molestation is something else entirely," he says. "I can do that, though. I don't think it's going to be as pleasant as you imagine it." He looks around -- there's the scent of magic, and he tilts his head.
"Unless you want to risk wrath from Mister Inigo, I suggest you cooperate and seize before things get worse," Autumn says to the man, turning to focus for the source of the magic. "And I prefer no mess. There could also be chance that you may be falsely tipped which led to this ongoing investigation?"
"Jesus christ, are you -threatening- us?" That seems to snap the man out of his befuddled, and flustered state, his eyebrows disappearing into his also rapidly disappearing hairline as he stares at Autumn. His gaze jerks back to Solomon, the lawyer, then, and once more back upon the young woman. "Yeah, I know it was obstruction! You get out of here, you're going to be charged with tampering and intimidation when I get a judge on the line."
"Tampering is a crime," Solomon shares with the man. "That one's different, though." He pauses. "Right now I'm doing a little bit more educating than threatening, don't you think?" he suggests. "It's as if someone should have brought a lawyer into this -- which is, mind you, another deficiency with your warrant. The Justice Manual requires it be signed off by an AUSA," he says. "I called up to Boston -- I'm friends with the First Assistant, you see -- and they never saw it." He's on a roll. "And then of course the Manual also requires any tax investigation to have sign-off from the Tax Division, and guess what?" A spreading smile. "Again, peanuts. Now," he says. "Perhaps that's not going to fall on you. But on the other hand..." A low pause. "Perhaps all of Heaven is going to fall on you. What is it they say? Fiat Justia, Ruit Caelum?"
Well, it's clear that the accountant doesn't have a law degree, because he doesn't even try to argue back this time. He just squints, slowly, eyes narrowing as blood drip-drip-drips from his nose and onto his shirt. Then, he starts to try and close the door in Solomon and Autumn's faces, clearly giving up on arguing with the pair and just trying to shut them back out.
"What Mister Inigo said," Autumn tells the man while having to take in Solomon's explanation. "I am pursuer of justice and-" Upon seeing the man attempting to close the door, she puffs her cheeks. "You know it is rude to shut door to someone while they are speaking. Wouldn't you not want to know that something could be malfunctioning in that room?"
A step, forward, and Solomon opens the door. This is a smooth motion -- but it is also, perhaps, an unstoppable one, entering the room entirely. "We'll repeat," he says easily. "You can leave, and we can take this matter to your superiors, and work it out with them." He pauses. "That's the wise choice," he says. "Or we can take some other road."
The door starts to close, right in their faces, but then it stops. Rather than closing, the door pushes back, or rather Solomon does, and the weedy accountant is just slid across the carpet like he's nothing. The man blinks, blances, and then with a glance at his coworkers there seems to be a consensus reached. They all, the lot of them, three others plus broken-nose, turn and try to flee past Solomon and Autumn, and into the night, abandoning their work and the evidence they'd collected thus far as they try to escape. "Call the cops!" Can be heard.
Stepping into the room, Autumn squints her eyes as she says, "If you call cops, there is chance you will also all be arrested. Also, use ice to cool that nose!" She then examines the work left behind while she hums quietly. "So was what they are investigating true?" she wonders of Solomon. "I do not know much about taxes and all that stuff."
Solomon is happy to oblige -- calling the Sheriff, the corrupt, Haven sheriff, to let them know the IRS is on their way out of town. There's a look over at Autumn. "Cowards," he tells her. "But then what's to expect? Close the door. There's some magic here -- let's find it and destroy it before it reasserts itself in some ugly way." Once she closes the door, he begins to chant, something low. He looks back at Autumn. "We pay our taxes," he says. "Though most of our custom isn't exactly financial."
It isn't difficult to find the source of this off-kilter frequency, not for someone as experienced as Solomon. Never let it be said that he didn't get a good deal for whatever parts of himself he's sold off over the years.
There's a hum that draws attention, one of the evidence boxes stacked in the corner. Judging by the details scrawled upon it in a messy hand, it's likely the first to have been filled.
With a nod, Autumn turns to shut the door before she focuses again. "I see," she replies, sensing the hum after a while and browses around until she reaches the corner. "Last thing we need is pile of cursed work."
Digging through the pile, Solomon begins to scan for occult objects. "I would prefer to be done with this tonight," he tells Autumn. With his experience -- well. Such enchanted things are plain to the ancient sorcerer.
To be fair, it sort of stands out. Amidst the files, and reports, one of which contains a clipping of a death certificate for what must've been an ancestor of Solomon's with the same name, there is an abacus. It's old, and out of place, and sticky to the touch. The magic woven into it hums without subtley or class, really. It's a hodgepodge of a job. A meat and potatoes sort of magic. There's no artistry to it.
"This could be it," Autumn speaks, digging into the files until her hand gets caught in something sticky. "We can burn it or break it. Burning it would cause alarm to go off so let's try to break it." She then pulls out her hand from the pile and looks down to find the sticky abacus.
"Indeed," Solomon agrees with Autumn. The abacus comes out, and then he begins to sketch, quickly, a little ritual circle on the ground. "In the center," he tells her, as he begins to chant -- it's a low invocation, summoning the spirits he serves to send their servants to give him strength. Strength -- and magic -- only for him to crush the abacus under his foot at the chant's conclusion.
"Okay." Bringing the abacus, Autumn takes it to the ritual circle and places it right in the center. "I'm going to need to wash my hands after this," she murmurs with a glance at her hands.
"I think I may wash them in Miles Hull's blood," Solomon shares with Autumn.
Sometimes brute force is more than enough, even if it may've been some slight overkill this evening. The edge of the magic woven into the object was fraying, like a stitch, and those frayed parts might be plucked to undo it. Never-the-less, the abacus and the wholesale spell woven into it break beneath Solomon's heel, like so many other discarded toys and playthings in his past, no doubt. There's a blip, and then that off-kilter frequency of the spell begins to fade into nothingness.