Iago stood before the long mirror, straightening the cravat around his throat. His long black hair was neatly pulled back into a ponytail, tied with a green silk ribbon at the nape of his neck. As his lieutenant watched, amused, the proud elf pulled out a silver razor from his father's grooming kit, carefully removing every last sign of hair on his proper elven jaw. He wasn't going to be himself tonight. No instead he was going to be Lord Moriarty, last of his name and bastard son of the disgraced Moriarty line. In a kingdom with more human citizens than elves, half breeds were common everywhere but the noble class. Which was part of what made him so unique. The elves of the kingdom of Ilansana enjoyed many fine luxuries, from imported goods brought by ship from far exoctic places, to lavish mannors with plenty of servants, both paid and indentured. But the humans were rarely allowed to mingle in any way with the nobility. They were second class, with their own districts in the city, and places they simply were not allowed. Iago’s mother had been an exception, and his father had taken notice of the delicate featured human woman with raven colored hair. She’d been a musician, praised the land over. Many believed her to be half elven, stating that no human could have a voice so divine and play such subtle melodies. But she was human, and the widower, Lord Isandra Moriarty, knew this when he took to bed with her. Despite the shame and disgrace of his father’s actions that eventually led to his death, Iago had made a name for himself in the royal court, good enough to earn himself an invitation to attend the king's masquerade, though his included a caveat. The man was not to dance with any elven noblewoman. The stipulation did not offend him. He was beyond that, and to be quite frank, he was used to that sort of treatment. With a mask on, and without facial hair, they'd have no way of knowing it was him. And he could be quite the charmer.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4dffa6">“how do I look, Marcel?”</span>he asked suddenly, turning around to face the pure blooded elf sitting on top of the dresser. A slow smile spread across the man's face as he leaned back, an almost teasing grin on his chiseled features and mischeif sparkling in his deep blue eyes. Marcel had been an asset to their cause, the seventh son of an elven noble family and one who craved change as much as the rest of them, despite his upbringing. Marcel was proof that not only Humans flew the winds of change, but they had allies within the elves as well. And he was certainly not the only one.<br/><br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4d4dff">“it would be strange if you left without pants, My Lord...” </span>he could not help but laugh, holding it in as long as he could just to get the sentence out. Iago too joined him, throwing a pillow from the bed at his oldest and dearest friend.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4dffa6">“you know full well what I meant, you pointy eared craven.” </span>he snarled playfully. Marcel was the man that kept him going when all else failed, reminding him that they were doing the right thing. When he’d taken over this group of rag tag conspirators, he’d brought them control, precision and leadership that they’d otherwise lacked. He had traveled the country bringing as many of the smaller groups under his leadership as he could manage. Pulling on the perfectly pressed black pants, Iago couldn't help but marvel at how far they'd come in five years. The noble caste was so blind to the plight of their people, and he, the perfect and selfless savior. So many had rallied to their cause, ready to strike and drag their overlords into the street and lynch them. But that was not the way this would go down, it was too barbaric. Too dirty. Too much of a stereotype. Iago had brought elegance and restraint to the rebellion as well, and as their leader, he was willing to show that he would fight on the front lines at their side.<br/><br/>As he descended the stairs, now fully dressed, emerald and onyx mask in hand, he could not help but look at his reflection. His father had been obsessed with mirrors. They'd always bothered Iago, but now he could see why, dressed in his father's finery. He was impeccable. Combine that with his natural charisma and skill, and he would have no problem completing his end of the mission. His army of peasants had been training for five long years, And Marcel had personally crafted the bombs that were going to be planted around the royal ball room. It was Iago himself who had the hardest job. Find the princess. Kill the prince. Leave with the princess. The collapsed crossbow fit perfectly in the small of his back, even if he were patted down they would not find it. The bolt itself disguised as a pen in his pocket. It was venom tipped, and made of the sharpest substance they could get their hands on. It would shred through bone and muscle with ease, delivering its deadly poison straight into the heart, so long as Iago shot true. He was not the best shot, but he was the only one who could get into the ballroom, and get close enough to the crown prince. So long as his target was standing still, Iago could strike a killing blow without a doubt.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4dffa6">“Be ready at eleven o clock. Our inside man in the palace will let you in, Marcel... I WILL be out of the ballroom when it blows... just be safe...” </span>Iago rested his hands on his friend's face, touching foreheads before getting into the ornately painted carriage that would take him off to the palace. Tonight, he would change the path of Ilansana forever. And he would lead its people out of the Tyrant's shadow.<br/><br/><a class="username" data-user-id="222" data-username="@Racy Raptor" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/222/">@Racy Raptor</a>