Encounterlogs
Solomons Odd Encounter Sr Tabitha 240316
In the heart of a stormy morning, Solomon, a demonborn sorcerer with a knack for dark incantations and a yearning for old-fashioned simplicity, finds himself involved in a covert operation aimed at thwarting a dangerous ritual. The Sapphire Martyrs, a cult with plans to disrupt the supernatural connections between Earth and other realms, are conducting a ritual using a powerful artifact. Solomon, receiving an anonymous tip about the ritual's location and the involved artifact, prepares to intervene. His goal is to secure the artifact for his own, knowing well its value in fueling his eidolon essence. Despite the discomfort of entering a consecrated space and the trickiness of navigating through a holy church's basement, Solomon's determination is unwavering. As he gets ready, an underlying tension builds, hinted at by a forced encounter with magic in the air and inconvenient interruptions by his phone.
As Solomon descends into the church's underbelly, he is suddenly thrust into a direct confrontation with the Martyrs and the artifact itself. Discovering the ritual in full swing, he makes a bold, sacrificial gesture, cutting deep into his own flesh to disrupt their magic with his blood—a currency of immense value in the arcane realm. The act creates a link between him and the Martyr leading the ritual, revealing the stakes are higher than he anticipated. In a desperate, power-driven clash, Solomon transforms into the formidable Black Goat, attacking the Martyrs in a furious bid to prevent the amulet's destruction. Despite his fierce onslaught, the core of the amulet is destroyed before he can claim it, its power lost to all. With the ritual disrupted but the artifact ruined, Solomon, cloaked in frustration and unfulfilled vengeance, vanishes into the shadows, leaving the aftermath of a thwarted ritual and a battle that confirms both his fearsome capabilities and the lengths he will go to in defense of his dark pursuits.
(Solomon's odd encounter(SRTabitha):SRTabitha)
[Fri Mar 15 2024]
In middle floor bedroom of a Converted Windmill
The second-floor master bedroom within the windmill conversion is modern style amidst layered history. Nestled within the curved walls of the original structure, the room features a luxurious king-sized bed centered against a backdrop of exposed brick, adding a touch of the building's historical essence. The soft, plush bedding in dark tones invites restful slumber, while floor-to-ceiling windows offer breathtaking views of the starlit sky and the landscape beyond. Custom-built, curved wardrobes follow the contours of the room, maximizing space without compromising the room's elegant aesthetic. In one part of the room, an en-suite bathroom with a glass-walled shower has marble accents.
It is morning, about 34F(1C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds.
(Your target and their allies receive an anonymous tip about a ritual being conducted by The Sapphire Martyrs at a local abandoned church. The ritual involves a powerful artifact that can disrupt the supernatural connections between Earth and other worlds. The group must infiltrate the church, navigate the Martyrs' defenses, and stop the ritual before it's too late. However, they find out that the artifact is protected by a member of the Martyrs ready to sacrifice themselves to ensure the ritual's completion. The encounter tests the characters' resourcefulness, combat skills, and their ability to make tough moral decisions.)
It's the morning, and Solomon is getting dressed -- he's stepped out of the shower, and he is in front of the mirror, shaving slowly. There's frustration in his thoughts -- he uses an old-fashioned safety razor, but there is some low longing for the days when every morning he would walk down Main Street and settle at the barber's chair for a shave. A short, sharp shake sends lather flying to the sink, and then he comes back up. "The problem with this world," he tells himself in the mirror, "Is that most no longer understand that everyone has a master."
Ah, the good old days, when the townsfolk would have chased Solomon from the town with pitchforks and torches up into this very windmill. The -afternoon- lingers on, the sun high in the sky as Solomon finally prepares for the rest of his day. So many things to do. Friends to make. People to influence. Blood to spill. But for now? Its a normal sort of day, as he shaves, and nicks himself. That nick is not due to shaky hands, no, but there is a tingle in the air, something that makes the demonborn's hair stand on end at the nape of his neck. Magic. It's in the air. And it stinks.
That nick produces some low frown, blood sizzling a little, and then Solomon sets the razor down. He turns -- red eyes scan the room, even as the cut closes with some low, magical power. He makes some little gesture, a complex hand-tut that weaves his fingers together with the practice of ages, and then he sniffs. No words are needed, but there is some tension in his air; he reaches for the words to step away from this place to some sanctuary, letting them float in front of his eyes in case they need to be pronounced with speed.
Though there be magic in the air, very literally, at this juncture, sometimes things do not need magic, unless it is the magic of technology. While Solomon seeks out the spell he desires, floating there like some evil alphabet soup, his phone goes off, a near silent buzz, then another, then another. It is an annoyance, surely. Considering those good old days. The buzzing ceases. But that feeling? That prickle. Tickle. Tease.
It remains.
There is magic of many means -- Solomon reaches out with his mind to touch his phone, to check the messages even as he continues to scan the room. He chants again, low, some spell of revelation, and then, with his razor discarded, he goes to step and find at least some clothing, pulling on a pair of briefs.
Upon Solomon's phone are multiple messages from one person. Someone he's familiar with, a man of means who he's long influenced as a secretive member of the Damned. The news: An Address that when googled, if Solomon even should use it, would indicate it is a church; a picture of an amulet with varied runes scribed upon it; a photo of a member of the Sapphyre Martyrs. Then text to explain that a curse has been activated. Though, not simply found; this piece of jewelry is not cheap and disguised. Its runes speak of power.
Now fully dressed, Solomon frowns -- and then he smiles. He begins to head for that address, calling a car, as he invokes some prayer to the things he serves. This is an opportunity, after all: magical artifacts, cursed or not, are the fuel an eidolon needs to survive. Along the way, he begins to set out his ritual items, making sure they are close to hand before he pulls up at the church.
Stepping outside, there is a frown, some shiver at a holy place. However distant its consecration, it creates an itch at the back of the sorcerer's neck.
Indeed, magical amulets make the eidolon's world go round, but it is not the only thing. It is also because of people like Solomon, like his informant. Who, waits somewhere near the address, pacing about in his traditional priest robe, fingers tugging a bit along his collar, stained a little yellowish brown by stress sweat. Like a little Renfeld, the man takes hurried steps toward Solomon. "Mister Inigo. They are under the Church." They. How many? Who knows? The priest doesn't even seem to. But it is more than one. "I don't know what those runes mean, but I heard them whispering when I was in the confessional booth..." Confessional booths must be made of cardboard. "Something about its disruptive nature."
"Under the chuch," Solomon tells the man. "Are there mirrors down there?" he asks his informant. "Can I enter through the nightmare, or is this a more... physical excursion?" he wonders. He straightens his tie -- no armor, for this jaunt. "Disruptive how?" This last question is rhetorical, entered into the empty air, as he shifts a little to check the hilt of the ritual knife he carries with him.
"It is a Church," the informant tells Solomon, with a frown on his cragged lips. "No, there is no way to enter via the nightmare." Ah, the good old, old fashioned days. Maybe having a razor to shave with isn't so bad afterall! The priest shrugs. "I don't know. When I walked down they stopped talking. I said I was getting some of the wine. I tried to linger. But they did not talk." There is a car that passes by, and the informant watches it pass, placating the people inside the car with a priestly smile and a wave of his hand to what must be part of his congregation. Surely.
"Well," Solomon tells the priest with a shrug. "There are old-fashioned ways to do things." A bright smile, his red eyes concealed behind dark glasses -- for the moment. "God bless, Father." Then he is inside the church, heading to the stairs to the basement. As he descends them, his glasses come off, and now he is red-eyed in the shadows beneath the church.
That car was not simply filled with the priest's flock. No. As Solomon enters the Church, he might hear a scuffle behind him, but when he looks back, that priest is no longer there. At least not in a direct line of sight. He is held behind the Church dumpster, a hand across his mouth and a knife at his throat. Seems that Solomon may not be the only person who has informants.
Some low frustration -- Solomon's attention is split, for a moment, but there are always more informants. Magic matters. What, after all, is one more dead priest? The red-eyed sorcerer presses forward, down the stairs. His bronze-bladed ritual knife is in his hand, now, even if it is concealed beneath the sleeve of his suit jacket.
The priest is not met with a knife across his throat, but the hilt to his temple, and when he is bound and gagged, he is placed inside that dumpster with one of them guiltily requesting, "Forgive me Father," and crosses themselves. The other gives an unamused look, and then, when Solomon continues on his way through the church to the basement, so do they. They follow, trained in silence.
Solomon looks between those following him and those in front of him. There are concerns, obviously: mortal men ahead and behind, but the old sorcerer is canny. He steps back, into the shadows of the crypts, to take some lay of the land.
When Solomon reaches the steps to the Church basement, that feeling of magic is much stronger. The scent of it itches at Solomon's nose. The chanting is heard, the ritual well underway. The disruption spoke of? Were Solomon to try to perform any such magic, it may even take an attempt or two. The two following him also stopped, a curse coming from one. Instead of following Solomon into the darkness of the catacombs, they open the door and step inside. Upon their bags, the symbol of Sapphire Martyrs. The door closes, with the whispers of one to one the members already there. Something about a guest.
Solomon may notice a group of five or six within the room when the door opens. He could probably take them if he wanted. But the longer the chanting goes on, the more Solomon may feel like there is something weakening his magic. Not so much weakening. No. Making it harder to cast. Those words that floated before him before, now are truly alphabet soup, should he try again. Whatever the case, if he wants to stop the ritual from being completed, he will need to act soon.
The red-eyed sorcerer scans the rooom, and then he frowns. Harder to cast? There are ways through that, and then he steps out of the shadows. Now the knife is in Solomon's hand, and he is counter-chanting, slashing his wrist. Blood: blood is a sacrifice worth making. Cuts for blood are common, but he draws back his arm and then cuts deeper, some wound that begins to gush as he offers up his life, burning bright, to those he serves. He begins to invoke their names -- ancient syllables spilling from his tongue -- in an effort to break these cultists' magic.
As magic works, especially when it comes to warfare, a link is suddenly created by Solomon's powerful sacrifice, sizzling and boiling as the crimson hits the floor. That link brings the caster of the ritual into vision, and Solomon into theirs. The Martyr grasps the amulet, its lapis lazuli stone in the center glowing bright, that lays around her neck, clasping it. While others in the room are not visible in this link, from the other side of the door, their chanting has stopped. There's a lot of scrambling heard. The Martyr begins a different chant, a fight now between Solomon and them. The amulet's stone begins to fade in its glowing glory. It is torn from their neck, "You will not have it, Damned," she claims.
"I will not?" Solomon asks. His eyes blaze as he stares at the caster, and he is advancing. There's a door here, and he rips it from his hinges with some casual reach of his hand. Blood sprays everwhere, and then he steps through. "I will," he says. His eyes are on the caster, and he is pouring magical power across the link, his eyes seeing the room now in two forms. As blood drips down his hand, he begins to summon fire from it, boiling there as a low ball of balefire.
These people are called Martyrs for a reason and it does not take long for them to set into motion when the door is swung open. The OG caster takes that amulet and lays it before here, seeking to crush that stone in its center to powder. Armed tith a hammer to do this, she begins to crack it against the gold and jewel, all the while. The two that had followed Solomon begin to shoot guns at him and that forming ball of fire. While these people may die, so will the power that resides in the amulet. If they can't have it, no one will.
Destroying the amulet is, in the scheme of things, not what Solomon wants. Also on the list of things the ancient sorcerer would prefer to avoid is being shot -- and so it is time to move. The chant ceases, and he turns; he turns and shifts, his body starting to elongate and stretch. Those red eyes widen, pupils becoming a vertical slit, and then terrible horns grow from his head. The cracking of bone accompanies the stretching of black fur, and then, no longer a man, the Black Goat stands there. There's a look and then it leaps, hurtling towards the Martyr in the center in an attempt to rip the throat out of the woman before she can destroy the jewel, letting gunfire spark off his infernal hide.
The hammer is brought down once again upon the amulet. Crrrraaaaack. The glow dims to nothing. And then the hammer is swung madly at Solomon in his owl form. Solomon manages to claw at her throat, but there are more people there than just him and the Martyr. Another grasps the woman, and the broken amulet, and soon both are gone. Walking right into the shadows, not the nightmare. The two who thought they were being smart and silent are now out of bullets. They look at Solomon, where the Martyr was, look at Solomon, then at each other. They take off running back out the hall, toward the stairs, guns having been discrarded on the Church basement floor. At least it is not Sunday, and the ruckus is less likely to be noticed.
The Black Goat stands there, frustrated -- and there is a low stamping at the ruins of the amulet. Red eyes peer around the space, and then, with a sudden growled word of power, he is a man again. Solomon stoops low, looking at the ruins of the amulet, and then runs bloody fingers through them as frustration boils over. He crushes the remnants in his supernaturally strong hand, and then he straightens. There are none left here now for him to kill -- none at all, his end frustrated -- and so with a few muttered words he summons the shadows around him to step out of this place and back home.
It is not an owl form that Solomon takes, but his horrid Black Goat! But the outcome rmains. At least with the knowledge that her attempts to disrupt magic was .. well .. disrupted. And that the consequence of her destruction of the artifact Solomon would have liked to give to Legion to earn its praise is that her throat has been sliced open, and it could very well mean her death, or at the very least, the inability to utter another spell for some time to come.
As Solomon descends into the church's underbelly, he is suddenly thrust into a direct confrontation with the Martyrs and the artifact itself. Discovering the ritual in full swing, he makes a bold, sacrificial gesture, cutting deep into his own flesh to disrupt their magic with his blood—a currency of immense value in the arcane realm. The act creates a link between him and the Martyr leading the ritual, revealing the stakes are higher than he anticipated. In a desperate, power-driven clash, Solomon transforms into the formidable Black Goat, attacking the Martyrs in a furious bid to prevent the amulet's destruction. Despite his fierce onslaught, the core of the amulet is destroyed before he can claim it, its power lost to all. With the ritual disrupted but the artifact ruined, Solomon, cloaked in frustration and unfulfilled vengeance, vanishes into the shadows, leaving the aftermath of a thwarted ritual and a battle that confirms both his fearsome capabilities and the lengths he will go to in defense of his dark pursuits.
(Solomon's odd encounter(SRTabitha):SRTabitha)
[Fri Mar 15 2024]
In middle floor bedroom of a Converted Windmill
The second-floor master bedroom within the windmill conversion is modern style amidst layered history. Nestled within the curved walls of the original structure, the room features a luxurious king-sized bed centered against a backdrop of exposed brick, adding a touch of the building's historical essence. The soft, plush bedding in dark tones invites restful slumber, while floor-to-ceiling windows offer breathtaking views of the starlit sky and the landscape beyond. Custom-built, curved wardrobes follow the contours of the room, maximizing space without compromising the room's elegant aesthetic. In one part of the room, an en-suite bathroom with a glass-walled shower has marble accents.
It is morning, about 34F(1C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds.
(Your target and their allies receive an anonymous tip about a ritual being conducted by The Sapphire Martyrs at a local abandoned church. The ritual involves a powerful artifact that can disrupt the supernatural connections between Earth and other worlds. The group must infiltrate the church, navigate the Martyrs' defenses, and stop the ritual before it's too late. However, they find out that the artifact is protected by a member of the Martyrs ready to sacrifice themselves to ensure the ritual's completion. The encounter tests the characters' resourcefulness, combat skills, and their ability to make tough moral decisions.)
It's the morning, and Solomon is getting dressed -- he's stepped out of the shower, and he is in front of the mirror, shaving slowly. There's frustration in his thoughts -- he uses an old-fashioned safety razor, but there is some low longing for the days when every morning he would walk down Main Street and settle at the barber's chair for a shave. A short, sharp shake sends lather flying to the sink, and then he comes back up. "The problem with this world," he tells himself in the mirror, "Is that most no longer understand that everyone has a master."
Ah, the good old days, when the townsfolk would have chased Solomon from the town with pitchforks and torches up into this very windmill. The -afternoon- lingers on, the sun high in the sky as Solomon finally prepares for the rest of his day. So many things to do. Friends to make. People to influence. Blood to spill. But for now? Its a normal sort of day, as he shaves, and nicks himself. That nick is not due to shaky hands, no, but there is a tingle in the air, something that makes the demonborn's hair stand on end at the nape of his neck. Magic. It's in the air. And it stinks.
That nick produces some low frown, blood sizzling a little, and then Solomon sets the razor down. He turns -- red eyes scan the room, even as the cut closes with some low, magical power. He makes some little gesture, a complex hand-tut that weaves his fingers together with the practice of ages, and then he sniffs. No words are needed, but there is some tension in his air; he reaches for the words to step away from this place to some sanctuary, letting them float in front of his eyes in case they need to be pronounced with speed.
Though there be magic in the air, very literally, at this juncture, sometimes things do not need magic, unless it is the magic of technology. While Solomon seeks out the spell he desires, floating there like some evil alphabet soup, his phone goes off, a near silent buzz, then another, then another. It is an annoyance, surely. Considering those good old days. The buzzing ceases. But that feeling? That prickle. Tickle. Tease.
It remains.
There is magic of many means -- Solomon reaches out with his mind to touch his phone, to check the messages even as he continues to scan the room. He chants again, low, some spell of revelation, and then, with his razor discarded, he goes to step and find at least some clothing, pulling on a pair of briefs.
Upon Solomon's phone are multiple messages from one person. Someone he's familiar with, a man of means who he's long influenced as a secretive member of the Damned. The news: An Address that when googled, if Solomon even should use it, would indicate it is a church; a picture of an amulet with varied runes scribed upon it; a photo of a member of the Sapphyre Martyrs. Then text to explain that a curse has been activated. Though, not simply found; this piece of jewelry is not cheap and disguised. Its runes speak of power.
Now fully dressed, Solomon frowns -- and then he smiles. He begins to head for that address, calling a car, as he invokes some prayer to the things he serves. This is an opportunity, after all: magical artifacts, cursed or not, are the fuel an eidolon needs to survive. Along the way, he begins to set out his ritual items, making sure they are close to hand before he pulls up at the church.
Stepping outside, there is a frown, some shiver at a holy place. However distant its consecration, it creates an itch at the back of the sorcerer's neck.
Indeed, magical amulets make the eidolon's world go round, but it is not the only thing. It is also because of people like Solomon, like his informant. Who, waits somewhere near the address, pacing about in his traditional priest robe, fingers tugging a bit along his collar, stained a little yellowish brown by stress sweat. Like a little Renfeld, the man takes hurried steps toward Solomon. "Mister Inigo. They are under the Church." They. How many? Who knows? The priest doesn't even seem to. But it is more than one. "I don't know what those runes mean, but I heard them whispering when I was in the confessional booth..." Confessional booths must be made of cardboard. "Something about its disruptive nature."
"Under the chuch," Solomon tells the man. "Are there mirrors down there?" he asks his informant. "Can I enter through the nightmare, or is this a more... physical excursion?" he wonders. He straightens his tie -- no armor, for this jaunt. "Disruptive how?" This last question is rhetorical, entered into the empty air, as he shifts a little to check the hilt of the ritual knife he carries with him.
"It is a Church," the informant tells Solomon, with a frown on his cragged lips. "No, there is no way to enter via the nightmare." Ah, the good old, old fashioned days. Maybe having a razor to shave with isn't so bad afterall! The priest shrugs. "I don't know. When I walked down they stopped talking. I said I was getting some of the wine. I tried to linger. But they did not talk." There is a car that passes by, and the informant watches it pass, placating the people inside the car with a priestly smile and a wave of his hand to what must be part of his congregation. Surely.
"Well," Solomon tells the priest with a shrug. "There are old-fashioned ways to do things." A bright smile, his red eyes concealed behind dark glasses -- for the moment. "God bless, Father." Then he is inside the church, heading to the stairs to the basement. As he descends them, his glasses come off, and now he is red-eyed in the shadows beneath the church.
That car was not simply filled with the priest's flock. No. As Solomon enters the Church, he might hear a scuffle behind him, but when he looks back, that priest is no longer there. At least not in a direct line of sight. He is held behind the Church dumpster, a hand across his mouth and a knife at his throat. Seems that Solomon may not be the only person who has informants.
Some low frustration -- Solomon's attention is split, for a moment, but there are always more informants. Magic matters. What, after all, is one more dead priest? The red-eyed sorcerer presses forward, down the stairs. His bronze-bladed ritual knife is in his hand, now, even if it is concealed beneath the sleeve of his suit jacket.
The priest is not met with a knife across his throat, but the hilt to his temple, and when he is bound and gagged, he is placed inside that dumpster with one of them guiltily requesting, "Forgive me Father," and crosses themselves. The other gives an unamused look, and then, when Solomon continues on his way through the church to the basement, so do they. They follow, trained in silence.
Solomon looks between those following him and those in front of him. There are concerns, obviously: mortal men ahead and behind, but the old sorcerer is canny. He steps back, into the shadows of the crypts, to take some lay of the land.
When Solomon reaches the steps to the Church basement, that feeling of magic is much stronger. The scent of it itches at Solomon's nose. The chanting is heard, the ritual well underway. The disruption spoke of? Were Solomon to try to perform any such magic, it may even take an attempt or two. The two following him also stopped, a curse coming from one. Instead of following Solomon into the darkness of the catacombs, they open the door and step inside. Upon their bags, the symbol of Sapphire Martyrs. The door closes, with the whispers of one to one the members already there. Something about a guest.
Solomon may notice a group of five or six within the room when the door opens. He could probably take them if he wanted. But the longer the chanting goes on, the more Solomon may feel like there is something weakening his magic. Not so much weakening. No. Making it harder to cast. Those words that floated before him before, now are truly alphabet soup, should he try again. Whatever the case, if he wants to stop the ritual from being completed, he will need to act soon.
The red-eyed sorcerer scans the rooom, and then he frowns. Harder to cast? There are ways through that, and then he steps out of the shadows. Now the knife is in Solomon's hand, and he is counter-chanting, slashing his wrist. Blood: blood is a sacrifice worth making. Cuts for blood are common, but he draws back his arm and then cuts deeper, some wound that begins to gush as he offers up his life, burning bright, to those he serves. He begins to invoke their names -- ancient syllables spilling from his tongue -- in an effort to break these cultists' magic.
As magic works, especially when it comes to warfare, a link is suddenly created by Solomon's powerful sacrifice, sizzling and boiling as the crimson hits the floor. That link brings the caster of the ritual into vision, and Solomon into theirs. The Martyr grasps the amulet, its lapis lazuli stone in the center glowing bright, that lays around her neck, clasping it. While others in the room are not visible in this link, from the other side of the door, their chanting has stopped. There's a lot of scrambling heard. The Martyr begins a different chant, a fight now between Solomon and them. The amulet's stone begins to fade in its glowing glory. It is torn from their neck, "You will not have it, Damned," she claims.
"I will not?" Solomon asks. His eyes blaze as he stares at the caster, and he is advancing. There's a door here, and he rips it from his hinges with some casual reach of his hand. Blood sprays everwhere, and then he steps through. "I will," he says. His eyes are on the caster, and he is pouring magical power across the link, his eyes seeing the room now in two forms. As blood drips down his hand, he begins to summon fire from it, boiling there as a low ball of balefire.
These people are called Martyrs for a reason and it does not take long for them to set into motion when the door is swung open. The OG caster takes that amulet and lays it before here, seeking to crush that stone in its center to powder. Armed tith a hammer to do this, she begins to crack it against the gold and jewel, all the while. The two that had followed Solomon begin to shoot guns at him and that forming ball of fire. While these people may die, so will the power that resides in the amulet. If they can't have it, no one will.
Destroying the amulet is, in the scheme of things, not what Solomon wants. Also on the list of things the ancient sorcerer would prefer to avoid is being shot -- and so it is time to move. The chant ceases, and he turns; he turns and shifts, his body starting to elongate and stretch. Those red eyes widen, pupils becoming a vertical slit, and then terrible horns grow from his head. The cracking of bone accompanies the stretching of black fur, and then, no longer a man, the Black Goat stands there. There's a look and then it leaps, hurtling towards the Martyr in the center in an attempt to rip the throat out of the woman before she can destroy the jewel, letting gunfire spark off his infernal hide.
The hammer is brought down once again upon the amulet. Crrrraaaaack. The glow dims to nothing. And then the hammer is swung madly at Solomon in his owl form. Solomon manages to claw at her throat, but there are more people there than just him and the Martyr. Another grasps the woman, and the broken amulet, and soon both are gone. Walking right into the shadows, not the nightmare. The two who thought they were being smart and silent are now out of bullets. They look at Solomon, where the Martyr was, look at Solomon, then at each other. They take off running back out the hall, toward the stairs, guns having been discrarded on the Church basement floor. At least it is not Sunday, and the ruckus is less likely to be noticed.
The Black Goat stands there, frustrated -- and there is a low stamping at the ruins of the amulet. Red eyes peer around the space, and then, with a sudden growled word of power, he is a man again. Solomon stoops low, looking at the ruins of the amulet, and then runs bloody fingers through them as frustration boils over. He crushes the remnants in his supernaturally strong hand, and then he straightens. There are none left here now for him to kill -- none at all, his end frustrated -- and so with a few muttered words he summons the shadows around him to step out of this place and back home.
It is not an owl form that Solomon takes, but his horrid Black Goat! But the outcome rmains. At least with the knowledge that her attempts to disrupt magic was .. well .. disrupted. And that the consequence of her destruction of the artifact Solomon would have liked to give to Legion to earn its praise is that her throat has been sliced open, and it could very well mean her death, or at the very least, the inability to utter another spell for some time to come.