Iago moriarty smirked inwardly, seeing the hint of blush that stained her cheeks. He was no soldier, lacking the strength and stamina for genuine combat. But he was agile, quick witted and sharp eyed, sharp enough to catch the momentary break in her perfect and well rehearsed composure. He watched her gaze slide backwards to the party, as if looking to see if others had followed her. To Iago’s good fortune, they were alone for now. And if he could just keep her occupied for a time, if he could simply pull the right strings and make all the players dance to his piper's tune, everything would go smoothly. The railing here reaching over the canal was easily low enough for him to tip them both over the edge. But not now. The timing had to be right.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4dffa6">"a flower that blooms in the light of the stars. perhaps for one might, perhaps more. so close, yet untouchable."</span>his thin lips pulled into a gentle smile, accenting his elven features, softer than most but blurred by the mask he wore. Though many wore masks at this event, a masquerade after all, they were identifiable in other ways. But he’d made sure that he himself was an enigma. When he’d left the poetry linger long enough in the air, enough for her to wonder if she was in fact the beautiful flower of which he prophesied, his voice broke the silence of the quivering starlight once more.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4dffa6">“The Amethyst starflower. It blooms for the duration of the spring, and if chilly enough, the first month of summer. The night of the new moon. They’re rare here, not taking well to the valley, but in the mountains, you can find fields of them if the clime be precise. They bloom tonight, and i must miss it. Though I suspect that duty calls to us all does it not, Princess?”</span>and yet, through careful tension in his voice, he alluded without saying as much that there might be another flower that smelled as sweet.<br/><br/>He could not help but wonder how difficult it would be to distract her from her duties. But if he made sure that she was the one engaging him, none could fault him. Not that it would matter after the clock struck eleven. The palace would be in ruins, the symbol of oppression shattered and crumbling, burning with the flames of revolution.