And so it began...

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Solomon Ash sat at his borrowed desk and let the smoke in his lungs form a film of tar on the inside of his mouth. He flicked his lips with his tongue and finally exhaled, his silver breath like fine white steam escaping a loose gasket. The sound of the city leaked into his office window, all engines and car horns and walking feet and loose lips. The fading daylight filtered through the Venetian blinds in streaks of red light and black shadow that fell across his office like a blanket. His shadow sheltered the worn case file strewn across his desk. Photos and newspaper clippings stared back at him, sullen and cold. He couldn’t make sense of it. They were only half of the jigsaw puzzle, and none of the pieces fit with any other; he needed the other half to form the truth advertised on the front of the box.

It was a shame, too; this case was the only reason he became a private eye. Years ago, back when it was fresh and the investigation was hot, he made rash decisions and novice mistakes. He'd learned since then, learned lessons only taught in the school of hard knocks, but now the trail was cold as ice. Hard times forced him to take other cases and push this one to the sidelines, but only out of necessity. The case was so ancient, so hopeless, but everytime he thought he had given up, he kept finding himself behind his old partner's desk, photos and police reports pushed around haphazardly in front of him.

He was suddenly interrupted by the clicking of stilletto heels on his hardwood floor, followed by a pair of legs that stretched up forever into a dress that clung to her curves like the stink on a drunkard. The face belonging to the legs had cute cheeks and big blue eyes and full, red lips that gushed,

"A client for you, Mr. Ash."

"Thanks, toots," He replied, "Go on an' send 'em in."

"That's 'Miss Stronghart' to you, Mr. Ash," She declared, leaving the door to drift closed as she clicked huffily back to her desk.

"Not in that little number, it ain't," Solomon muttered, and shut up when he saw a finely dressed shadow fall across the backwards letters of his name written on the glass of his door. The door fled from a dame in a fine fur coat whose idea of a good time was caking on mascara and powder to give you an idea of how sallow she would've looked thirty years ago. She pressed her white leather purse under her bosom like a newborn and walked like the room had been birthed from the business end of a rat.

She cleared her throat and enunciated, "You're Detective Solomon Ash, I presume?"

He took another drag from his stale cigarette and leaned back in his chair. "That's what it says on my card--and the door to my office, coincidentally. Please, have a seat. Somethin' I can help you with, miss...?"

"Coswell, Mrs. Gertrude Coswell," She introduced hastily, lowering herself into the weathered chair with a show of reluctance. "Perhaps you've heard of my husband, Andrew Coswell."

"Can't say I have, Missus Coswell."

"Of course you haven't," She dismissed flippantly. "I wouldn't expect a lowlife peeping tom with a camera to be aware of the upper crust any more than is required of his miserable paycheck, but I'm not here to make small talk. You see," She held a breath. "I believe my husband may be cheating on me."

A short pause followed, and Solomon realized she was waiting for a reaction.

"I'm shocked," He said, and raised his eyebrows for effect.

"I want you to follow him for a few days. I wrote up a schedule," She fished in her purse and pulled out a neatly folded paper that she presented to him. "It's where he'll be at what hour next week. But I don't want glossy 8x12 photos, or detailed accounts of where he went, who he met, and what he ate, or restaurant reciepts for tax purposes, or personal information on the little hussy, where she lives, where she works, who she knows, who her friends are, where they live," Her purse trembled in her gloved fists, "I just want a simple yes or no answer."

"Hundredn' fifty bucks a day, plus tax, plus twenty for the glossy 8x12 'simple yes or no's," He speculated, "An' a twenty buck deposit up front. Cash only, please."

She scowled and rose from her seat. "You fetch a high price for a man in a cheap suit," She said severely as her fingers pried open her pocketbook and thrust the bills in his face.

"You gotta pay good money for the best," Solomon Ash simply replied, grasping the folded notes as her hand darted away back to its perch on her purse. She only snorted. "Come back in a week, Missus Coswell, and I'll show you what your husband does with his free time."

"Good day," She huffed, turning and stalking out of his office, leaving his door open but slamming the agency's door behind her.

His secretary's snickering heralded her appearance in his doorframe.

"Whatta bore!" Ms. Stronghart laughed, shrugging on her coat. "That's the last for today, thank God--I'm off the clock, I gotta date with a certain sailor. Oh, an' I don't wanna open this place up tomorrow morning an' find you still sittin' there with a glass in your hand, y'hear?" She disappeared and reappeared a moment later with her purse. "Go out an' meet a cute girl, show her a good time. I know you can do that much!" She said, collecting the photos and papers that threatened to spill over onto his floor and closing the case file.

Solomon snorted softly and the hint of a smile almost flickered across his features. "Goodnight, Miss Stronghart."

"That's 'toots' to you, Mister," She smiled, leaving a quick kiss on his rough cheek and bubbling giggles to herself as she left.

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Username: [Pnelma Tirian]
Name: Solomon Ash
Age: 33
Description: Solomon stands 6'3", not counting his hat, with deeply flawed grey-green eyes resting under dark, expressive eyebrows. He isn't an unattractive man, but there is little to him that is particularly alluring. His brown hair is slicked back under his hat, and though he shaves every morning, a five o-clock shadow persists on scratching his cheeks. He dresses as smartly as his budget allows in a dark, tailored pinstripe suit and shiny black shoes. He wears a large tan overcoat and wears a red tie underneath his vest and a pocket watch in its pocket. He's well built, but not a large man, and his posture reflects a quiet disposition.
Weapons: He can hold his own in a bar brawl, but he prefers the straightforward nature of a revolver.
Abilities: He can vanish from sight with a thought, disappearing from the senses both physical and incorporeal. He also has a deep-seated connection with the Catholic church, and can withstand ridiculous amounts of pain and physical damage as long as his soul and his mind are pure and calm. When he is near a church or amongst innocent or religious souls, his powers are amplified, including his physical well-being.
Personality: Solomon is a quiet man with simple tastes. Unfortunately, his simple tastes include a fondness for whiskey, which tend to transform him from a mild-mannered, brutally frank detective into a violent, blubbering idiot. When he's not drowning himself, he is a man whose boyish ideals have been shattered, but the effects of those ideals on his personality remain intact.
History: Solomon was born and raised in Chicago to a former barnstormer and his eternally frazzled Irish wife. He was 19 when Pearl Harbor was bombed by the Japanese. His experience with his father's planes motivated him to join the Air Force, fighting in WWII as a fighter pilot. He moved out to California when he returned, hoping to find a new life. He joined the local law enforcement, but was dishonorably discharged from the force for a crime he did not commit. Left with nothing but a shabby Los Angeles apartment, he opened a detective agency with an old friend downtown. His friend had ties with the mafia, and after bailing him out one too many times, Solomon moved out on his own, opening his own office in Hollywood.
Stone of Power: The Bloodstone
Stone of Weakness: The Garnet muddles his senses and leaves him in a drunken, discombobulated state before sending him to sleep.