There’s something haunting about gold, the way it catches the eye. It doesn’t demand your attention, but you hand it over anyway, as if entranced by something that you can’t put into words. We’ve all seen it so many times, it’s almost everywhere you look nowadays, and yet still we seem to pause when it gleams, stunned by luster.
Tony found himself in this idle awe, glaring at the blade across the room, demanding answers from something with no voice. For years he’d held it, fought with it, and yet still it felt foreign to him, anonymous to his endless investigating. He pulled himself back against the headboard of his bed as the blade inched forward on the dresser, following his every move, locked to him. He’d forgotten how to dismiss its gifts, to revert it into the simple silver blade that was little more than a grotesque symbol to the world now. He had begun to become almost impressed with the war now, how it raged on just quiet enough to keep the world confused, passing off the heinous murders and brutal displays as unexpected and unrelated incidents, police reports stacking up in a safehouse in the downtown area while a government agency plotted their next move from the comfort of a fortress no one knew about. It almost made the whole thing feel like an act, a big show for a studio audience of bodies and memories.
“Do you think if you stare at it long enough it’ll feel guilty?” A voice broke the silence, Tony couldn’t help but imagine a laugh track in his head.
“I dunno, maybe. Have you tried it before?” The voice sighed and flopped onto the bed next to him in a mess of silver hair and stained pajamas.
“No, can’t say that I have, but mine isn’t as fancy as yours y’know? I got the contract free deal, it gives me a lot more options.” Tony chuckled as Bel lifted herself high enough to flop onto his stomach. The two giggled for a moment before the silence crept back in. It wasn’t long before they were both staring at the golden blade. Bel’s eyes broke the spell only to find a red envelope on the dresser next to the sword.
“What did you get this time?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Is it the same one again?”
“It’s fine, Bel, I’ll be fine.”
“Tony come on, it’s only going to get worse.” Bel picked herself up, and Tony took the opening and pulled off the bed, snagging the blade from the dresser and latching it to his belt. Bel jumped for a final word but he was out the door. She sighed, glancing at the fine bloody cursive on the inside of the crimson letter.
“God damnit.”
The Hotel Eldradora was reclaimed by the state in 1975 when an investigation found that a the owners of the establishment had begun killing their guests in cold blood for reasons only ever explained as “to prove a point”. In 2010, the building was purchased by an unknown businessman by the name of Mikhael Grim. Of course Mikhael Grim is a horribly silly name, and quite frankly Tony never really understood how no one during the entire buying process ever commented on it. In reality the hotel was paid for by a man known only as Death, an entity similar to the being War, who appeared immediately after the first silver swords were found scattered across the city. The hotel now serves as a haven for Warriors, the unfortunate souls cursed with death or death by something else along the road.
Tony, among the others most senior to the fight, lived on the 7th floor. Those who were “chosen” earlier lived below, all the way down to the rooms on the first floor, or what were colloquially known as “The Motel”, since no one ever stays there very long.
Every now and then, those chosen by War receive letters. Tasks, orders, bargains, whatever you’d really want to call them, they ask for a simple act to be performed. Complete the task, and you are rewarded. Refuse the task, and something comes after you to kill you. Either way, he wins. Either way he gets his show.
Tony was always quick on his feet, his pace two steps ahead of anyone tailing him. He cleared the stairs down to the lobby in less than a minute, tuning out the crying and wailing that always seemed to echo from the Motel. It wasn’t like that solved anything for anyone.
He cruised through the elegant marble-floored foyer to the front desk, rapping his knuckles on the door to the concierge’s office.
Shuffle.
Deal.
An ace and a seven. Darn, not a four.
Pass.
I lose.
Mody grumbled to himself and picked up the cards he'd dealt. He always lost to the dealer, except he was the dealer, which meant he always beat that silly Asmodeus, he wasn't any good at cards.
A knock at the door came. A visitor. He smelled of gold and cologne, the air tasted of iron, devoid of blood for a change. Marcellotony. Tonymarcello? Asmodeus was not good with names.
He pulled on his crisp black leather gloves and adorned his favorite bowler hat. He set the monacle he'd been given by his sister onto one of his eyeholes, tidying himself up before approaching the doorway and giving it a gentle swing open.
Asmodeus was 4 inches and 4 feet. He had eye holes in his cloth that were 4 centimeters in diameter, and his cloth had four pointed sections, one in front, one in back, and two on the sides. His cloth was made of silk, a dark purple, almost black, but not black, not quite. He wore it because it helped people see him. He was hard to see sometimes. Death called him a "sheet ghost" sometimes, which he didn't mind, Death was silly.
Mody's hand floated high above his head in an energetic wave, his arm almost impossible to make out, its clear fluid form visible only under the sheen of a distant lamp. "Marcellotony, come to visit Mody while I do the workjob. Very nice, very kind. What can me do for Marcellotony?" His voice was faint, as if from a distance, but close, but far.
Tony nodded politely to the gentledemon, always impressed with his punctuality. “Any mail for me today?” he inquired, peeking back into the office for a loose parcel or two. Mody scratched a seemingly nonexistent chin before scurrying into the dank hole that was his home, returning with a leather-bound book which he set on the counter eagerly, stretching up to meet its height.
“Will that be all Marcellotony?”
“That will be all, Asmodeus.”
With a regal bow, the demon returned to his cards, mumbling his victories and of course losses as the door closed behind him. Tony took up the old text and glazed through its pages briefly. The History of War. A Glimpse Into The Minds of Our Greatest Conquerors & Warriors. He swung one leg around the other, leaning against the counter as he flipped to the first page, skimming for details between the lines.
Tony found himself in this idle awe, glaring at the blade across the room, demanding answers from something with no voice. For years he’d held it, fought with it, and yet still it felt foreign to him, anonymous to his endless investigating. He pulled himself back against the headboard of his bed as the blade inched forward on the dresser, following his every move, locked to him. He’d forgotten how to dismiss its gifts, to revert it into the simple silver blade that was little more than a grotesque symbol to the world now. He had begun to become almost impressed with the war now, how it raged on just quiet enough to keep the world confused, passing off the heinous murders and brutal displays as unexpected and unrelated incidents, police reports stacking up in a safehouse in the downtown area while a government agency plotted their next move from the comfort of a fortress no one knew about. It almost made the whole thing feel like an act, a big show for a studio audience of bodies and memories.
“Do you think if you stare at it long enough it’ll feel guilty?” A voice broke the silence, Tony couldn’t help but imagine a laugh track in his head.
“I dunno, maybe. Have you tried it before?” The voice sighed and flopped onto the bed next to him in a mess of silver hair and stained pajamas.
“No, can’t say that I have, but mine isn’t as fancy as yours y’know? I got the contract free deal, it gives me a lot more options.” Tony chuckled as Bel lifted herself high enough to flop onto his stomach. The two giggled for a moment before the silence crept back in. It wasn’t long before they were both staring at the golden blade. Bel’s eyes broke the spell only to find a red envelope on the dresser next to the sword.
“What did you get this time?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Is it the same one again?”
“It’s fine, Bel, I’ll be fine.”
“Tony come on, it’s only going to get worse.” Bel picked herself up, and Tony took the opening and pulled off the bed, snagging the blade from the dresser and latching it to his belt. Bel jumped for a final word but he was out the door. She sighed, glancing at the fine bloody cursive on the inside of the crimson letter.
“God damnit.”
The Hotel Eldradora was reclaimed by the state in 1975 when an investigation found that a the owners of the establishment had begun killing their guests in cold blood for reasons only ever explained as “to prove a point”. In 2010, the building was purchased by an unknown businessman by the name of Mikhael Grim. Of course Mikhael Grim is a horribly silly name, and quite frankly Tony never really understood how no one during the entire buying process ever commented on it. In reality the hotel was paid for by a man known only as Death, an entity similar to the being War, who appeared immediately after the first silver swords were found scattered across the city. The hotel now serves as a haven for Warriors, the unfortunate souls cursed with death or death by something else along the road.
Tony, among the others most senior to the fight, lived on the 7th floor. Those who were “chosen” earlier lived below, all the way down to the rooms on the first floor, or what were colloquially known as “The Motel”, since no one ever stays there very long.
Every now and then, those chosen by War receive letters. Tasks, orders, bargains, whatever you’d really want to call them, they ask for a simple act to be performed. Complete the task, and you are rewarded. Refuse the task, and something comes after you to kill you. Either way, he wins. Either way he gets his show.
Tony was always quick on his feet, his pace two steps ahead of anyone tailing him. He cleared the stairs down to the lobby in less than a minute, tuning out the crying and wailing that always seemed to echo from the Motel. It wasn’t like that solved anything for anyone.
He cruised through the elegant marble-floored foyer to the front desk, rapping his knuckles on the door to the concierge’s office.
Shuffle.
Deal.
An ace and a seven. Darn, not a four.
Pass.
I lose.
Mody grumbled to himself and picked up the cards he'd dealt. He always lost to the dealer, except he was the dealer, which meant he always beat that silly Asmodeus, he wasn't any good at cards.
A knock at the door came. A visitor. He smelled of gold and cologne, the air tasted of iron, devoid of blood for a change. Marcellotony. Tonymarcello? Asmodeus was not good with names.
He pulled on his crisp black leather gloves and adorned his favorite bowler hat. He set the monacle he'd been given by his sister onto one of his eyeholes, tidying himself up before approaching the doorway and giving it a gentle swing open.
Asmodeus was 4 inches and 4 feet. He had eye holes in his cloth that were 4 centimeters in diameter, and his cloth had four pointed sections, one in front, one in back, and two on the sides. His cloth was made of silk, a dark purple, almost black, but not black, not quite. He wore it because it helped people see him. He was hard to see sometimes. Death called him a "sheet ghost" sometimes, which he didn't mind, Death was silly.
Mody's hand floated high above his head in an energetic wave, his arm almost impossible to make out, its clear fluid form visible only under the sheen of a distant lamp. "Marcellotony, come to visit Mody while I do the workjob. Very nice, very kind. What can me do for Marcellotony?" His voice was faint, as if from a distance, but close, but far.
Tony nodded politely to the gentledemon, always impressed with his punctuality. “Any mail for me today?” he inquired, peeking back into the office for a loose parcel or two. Mody scratched a seemingly nonexistent chin before scurrying into the dank hole that was his home, returning with a leather-bound book which he set on the counter eagerly, stretching up to meet its height.
“Will that be all Marcellotony?”
“That will be all, Asmodeus.”
With a regal bow, the demon returned to his cards, mumbling his victories and of course losses as the door closed behind him. Tony took up the old text and glazed through its pages briefly. The History of War. A Glimpse Into The Minds of Our Greatest Conquerors & Warriors. He swung one leg around the other, leaning against the counter as he flipped to the first page, skimming for details between the lines.
