The sight of the young blond man, cursing roundly as he struggled to button a soldier's jerkin a shade too large with one hand, while travailing to smooth a false mustache and beard onto his pasty cheeks, which were otherwise as smooth as a child's bottom, would fain have made even the most obdurate of hearts melt into undue amusement.

Indeed, Roderigo felt very much the fool at this moment, for he had, as was his wont, slept comfortably past the rising of the sun...only to recall, with grievous alacrity, that he was meant to be disguised as a soldier, and thus had to report to the Citadel in the early morn! Had not Iago warned him of the consequences of tardiness among the troops? In faith, cleaning barracks besmirched with the blood, sweat, and grime of war appealed to him not at all...

Therefore he ran through the Cypriot streets yet chill with damp, more quickly than he had ever run before, coughing and wheezing miserably as his lungs seemed to constrict form his haste. Disheveled he appeared for certain, and frantic, too, for his mind raced as he attempted to recall the location of the Citadel, and his eyes, occupied as they were with the assumption of his guise, paid no heed to where his feet took him, even as he realized, belatedly and with much chagrin, that he had likely gotten himself as lost as he had yesternight.

"God's teeth...how could I..." Without his noticing aught, the wide, airy streets, with their shops and inns and homes and inscrutable Greek atmospheres, had disappeared, in lieu of a dark, dank alley, littered with heaps of stinking, fossilized refuse, and what looked to be bones, all resting ominously in putrid puddles of water. A huddled human form lay prostrate at the far end, nearly obscured in sinister shadow. Roderigo twisted his mouth in a wry facsimile of a smile as he neared the figure, looking down upon it with a mixture of disgust and pity. Some drunkard, no doubt, sleeping off a night's indulgence in the filth...where he likely belonged, anyhow.

"I don't suppose you could direct me to the Citadel, my soused friend, now, could you?" he asked, kneeling beside the unconscious man. Heavens, he must have sounded right mad, talking to one who might well have been a lifeless sack... Odd, though; he smelled not of any discernible liquor, but rather of...damp leather, perhaps? The scent was disconcertingly familiar...

A slight shiver of what might have been trepidation ran through his blood at that moment, and with hands shaking from suspicion ever-growing, Roderigo turned the body over, dreading what he might find...

"My God..." That face...that sharp, dark face, expressionless in insensibility as it was in life...God, but he knew that face! "Iago?"

Barely daring to breathe, Roderigo grabbed his comrade underneath the arms, hauling him through the soaked streets with all the meager strength he possessed, cursing the pain emanating from his still-tender arm as he did. He had to find...someone, anyone! The young lieutenant, perhaps, or the savage Moor...they would know what to make of this! ...Would they not?