The dark haired man remained quiet for a moment, as if he too was basking in the soft light and peacefulness of the night. For Iago, it was but the calm before the storm. And on such a clear night, the fires of revolution would be seen for miles around.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4dffa6"> “Please, your highness, it is duty that brings me here tonight, instead of to the solace of the mountains. To my country, and it’s people. Simply that, and nowhere else. So if you wish it, my time is yours.” </span>he finally replied, in soft tones that echoed the gentleness of the night. It was fortunate for him that there was a clock in plain view, across the canals in the market square. He needed to be mindful of the time.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4dffa6"> “The flowers, you see, have five pointed petals, much like a star, with a cluster of smaller, brighter ones in the center. The larger ones are darker, to absorb heat, thicker, and feel like the softest velvet. They are often the first thing that blooms in the spring, forcing their way up through the snow. They’re survivors, with the stronger, thicker petals shielding the more delicate, less hearty ones. Its truly a sight, the first bloom of the spring. Bright violets and greens against the frosty white...”</span>Much like the revolutionaries had conspired to place themselves between the gentler folk and their Tyrant king, crimson blood about to stain the white marble of the noble’s inner city.  And tonight they would bloom, like the Amethyst Starflower he’d chosen for their Battle Banner. Tomorrow it would wave proudly. And their army would rise up from the hovels and slums, many trained and ready to fight, just laying in wait for the orders to come down.<br/><br/>And yet this lovely creature seemed to hang on his every word, thirsty for more, as though she hardly got to interact with someone who had half a brain. He almost felt sorry for the Naive woman. She was about to get a crash course in what the real world was like. But it could not be helped. She was far too old to be shielded from the reality of life. Something her father should have handled. But he could see now that the old man thought of his daughter as nothing more than a hunk of stone. A precious one, but one freely given as a gift to a loyal follower. One that they could set on a shelf to be admired, or cut to suit their own tastes. But of course the inevitable question of his name pulled him back from his thoughts. No doubt she would think his distracted mind made him more aloof, or was simply him reminiscing about the fields of flowers he’d left behind.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4dffa6">“Being a masquerade and all, it would not be fitting to give you my real name…”</span>but the nobleman was nothing if not poetic, and opted for old elven once more.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4dffa6">“You may call me Illdenar.” </span>he offered, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. he ‘d chosen the name of a hero of eld, from the book of Legacies. A powerful being who resided in the mountains and watched over the people below, in a time before kings, and judged those who mistreated those beneath him. A suitable name, but vague enough that she should not get too suspicious. A name people often referred to as the hand of justice.