some notes about Iago and his world

[mosthonest]

Iago is a Venetian, but it's not quite the Venice out of history books. It’s Medieval. Ish. Things aren’t quite right there, although it’s such a subtle offness that you might not even notice it. In Iago's world, colors are richer, and the temperament of the earth and sky and seasons more pronounced. The night is darker and deeper; dotted with brilliant stars, and deep shadows perfect for those with a mind for intrigue, or for lovers to hide in and exchange vows. When it’s day, the sky is bright and blue and perfect, with a warm wind and story-book clouds. When there’s a storm, it rages with more clash and bang than any storm of this world. And you can be certain that in Iago's world, magic and sorcerers and ghosts and fairies and gods abound, though he's seen none himself. It's a melodramatic place. A dream of sixteenth-century Venice, an approximation. Iago could tell you the year of our lord he thinks it is, but that may change day to day. In his world, ridiculous, improbable, and often tragic coincidences abound, as do scandalous, passionate love affairs. The people are an odd bunch – everyone from the princes to the prisoners, the lords to the louts all speak with beautiful, florid language. They speak their minds in soliloquies and sonnets. When they die, they really die. When a man is stabbed in Iago’s world, the blood is sure to run out of the wound in an aesthetically pleasing rivulet (and perhaps in a slightly too-bright red), and he’ll always have time to wax prolific about his impending doom. What Iago knows is Venice, an ancient city of islands and water and canals, full of twisting alleys and shapely gliding gondolas and a sort of glorious, rotting decadence that pervades everything like a rich stink. Which there is also plenty of, especially during the summer. And beyond Venice, there’s also the island Cyprus, where he’d spent a few brief but very important days with the general Othello. Cyprus had its pristine beaches, its impossibly blue waters, and its warm breeze that always smells of spices and sand. Iago himself is the ensign to Othello, first among generals and first among moors. He is the son of nobody worth mentioning. He is married. He's a fine soldier and fine speaker, and the finest, most inscrutable liar.