He was in the corner of the sitting room, watching the others quietly.  Unlike the other guards, Roarke wore no armor.  Tall leather boots trimmed with silver that came to his knees, with black silken pants tucked into them, embroidered with a black on black patterned rosevines, visible in the way the light caught the differing textures.  A long poet's shirt of equally black silk that fell to mid-thigh and gathered at his wrists and tied loosely enough to show a glimpse of his muscular chest.  He carried no weapon, just a set of plain wooden pipes around his neck on a leather thong.<br/><br/>The half-satyr sat in a guided chair leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed in front of his chest motionless.  One might have even thought he'd fallen asleep waiting there if not for how quickly he came to his feet at Dawn's arrival.  He swept one sharp-nailed hand through his curly hair and brushed his fingers along his short horns as the others answered Dawn's comment.<br/><br/>His dark eyes moved over her dress and he swallowed hard and wet his lips before stepping forward to bow deeply from the waist.  "My Princess," he said softly, "I am ready."