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"Still won't talk?" the guard shoved him through the bars to the cell. "It will never save you. You're set for the gallows, for certain."
The other guard cackled. "A fine show for us all, no doubt."
The prisoner never said a word, never looked up, never once acknowledged their existence. There was no excitement in that, kicking a dog who would not even whimper in response. The door clanged shut, the key turned in the lock, and Iago finally stood up.
"Fools, indeed," he murmured under his breath.
He turned so that he faced the wall behind him, looked down on the prison as if it were nothing but an illusion, and stepped right on through.
That evening, when the guards returned to try to torment him once more, they could scream and shout at each other all they wanted. Dark magic, would they say? Or would they be accused of aiding in his escape?
Perhaps they, in his stead, would be hung at the gallows. Iago paused for one moment in the crisp, clean air outside the prison walls and considered this prospect. It was an entertaining notion and might even be worth his continued presence.
He could take on a new form - a court official, perhaps - and manipulate events so that they were convicted, and then watch gleefully as they were hung. For a moment, Iago was very tempted, indeed.
However, one place could never hold his interest for long, and all the worthy had been bled of the true torment to be shed here. No, he would go elsewhere, find another noble cause, and rip him down to the depths of despair.
After all, too much destruction in one place led only to numbness. A fresh wound bled that much more profusely for never having been pricked before.
Iago set off into the woods, and he passed many a soul, but none saw him. He was invisible, above and beyond them all, and he turned up his nose at their revelry.
It wasn't until he reached the wood that another turned their head to study him. The observer was part of a small band of travelers circled about a campfire in the growing darkness. Performers, they appeared, and Iago would have paid them no heed, except for the one who looked into the pitch black and beheld what no human eyes could see.
Iago paused in his journey. The observer broke away from his companions with a laugh and stepped into the darkness to meet Iago.
Iago had not recognized his guise at first, but now he knew the observer. "Robin Goodfellow."
"And should I then call you 'Robin Badfellow'?" Iago's fellow sprite retorted.
Iago shrugged and looked long off into the distance where his next game awaited him. "You'll have a time, indeed, of making merry in the direction I have just come from."
"But you'll have very little difficulty with the reverse," the Puck retorted. "I hardly see that it's fair."
"That is how it is."
"It merely makes my own victories that much more savory."
"Hail you well on your journey, then, Spirit of Mirth," Iago nodded and turned away.
"And hail you on yours, Spirit of Strife," the Puck said just as pleasantly, and then: "Tell me, did they not suspect you at all?"
"Mortals never need suspect anything but their own black hearts for their suffering," Iago explained. "It's as you say."
"Fools, all," the Puck agreed. "But entertaining fools."
With that one common point between them, they parted ways through the wood once more.