It was first set in a merchant’s hall, somewhere between the fall of empires and the rise of banks.
The Trap sat gleaming in plain sight, not hidden, not disguised, always displayed with the kind of audacity only history affords. Around it: the familiar spoils, goblets, coins, a half-played chess match, a dagger yet to taste blood, and a bottle of wine long opened, long soured. These were never symbols of wealth, but of wager.
Men gathered here once, in secret or in ceremony, each convinced they were too clever, too strong, too destined to fall for such an obvious snare. But they all reached, in time. One saw strategy in the chessboard and believed he could outplay fate. Another trusted the blade. Another the wine. All missed the spectre of death never announcing itself with a knock, but a swing of the scythe.
Taken from a real world objet d'art hand-sculpted by myself in jesmonite, aluminium wire, and the possibly nigh fraudulent printing of real world money. May this digital copy be my own trap, or is it yours?
