The Assassin's Blade

Faylyn was just congratulating herself on her cleverness in bypassing the famous royal security of the fif'Steorra Lumen when she made a most unpleasant discovery. The Royal ball in progress was a masque.
Though she remained outwardly calm, indecision churned through her as she stared out over the milling throng below her from her position on the second floor balcony mezzanine overlooking the massive, glittering ballroom.
It occurred to her after several moments that there was no need to abort her mission. The discovery simply required an adjustment to her plans, a contingency she'd been well trained for. The upside to the discovery was that stealth was no longer a particularly high priority. There seemed to be no particular theme to the masquerade and, considering the outlandish costumes the guests were wearing, it seemed unlikely anyone would think much of a '˜blue' garbed as a Kilrathi assassin. In truth, it occurred to her that her chances of carrying out her assignment and living to tell about it were dramatically improved, though, like all assassins trained in the death arts by the Kilrathi, Faylyn had long ago accepted that her first mission might well be her last.
In this particular case, Faylyn had allowed no doubts about possible failure, no qualms about the likelihood that she'd been sent on a suicide mission. She'd been born for this opportunity, had yearned for it throughout the years of training, waiting impatiently for her coming of age.
If she could only kill Talor Sylvanos, Emperor of the fif'Steorra Lumen, the man who had destroyed her world, she would die a happy woman.
But therein lay the crux of the problem, and the inescapable downside of her present circumstances.
She had memorized the face of the man she'd come to assassinate and now saw that she was not likely to find him among the hundreds of guests, even if he was present.
Thrusting her doubts aside, she stepped from the shadows and moved casually toward the stairs that led down to the ballroom. As she made her way slowly down, she gazed out over the throng of guests, scanning and discarding possibilities.
As massive and crowded as the room was, it was well lit and her vantage point on the stairs allowed her to see the entire room, from the entrance just below, to the wall of glass doors along the back that opened onto a wide, open air walk. The room was elegantly appointed, displaying the craftsmanship of artisans from the many worlds that comprised the fif'Steorra Lumen in everything from it's furnishings; to the gilded moldings; to the eating and drinking vessels the guests used; to the fine silk that covered it's walls and the carpeting that covered all but the tiled dance floor.
There must have been upwards of five hundred guests in the room below, seated along the raised banquet that surrounded the dance floor, or gyrating on the dance floor itself.
Nevertheless, the Emperor had been described to her as a '˜giant of a man', well over six feet tall, powerfully built, a formidable warrior. Surely, with or without a costume, he would find it difficult to disguise such an imposing figure?
She was halfway down the stairs when she spotted a knot of men who fit that precise description. A frown of puzzlement gathered on her brow as she scanned each in turn. There must have been a dozen of them, and all fit the general description.
All wore identical costumes; a mask which covered the upper portion of their faces and their hair; a deep purple cloak; leather leggings and knee boots; a loose flowing, white shirt, opened to the waist, beneath the cloak; and on each chest glittered a medallion indicating rank in the royal guard.
It had just clicked in her mind that the group she'd discovered could be none other than the Emperor's personal guard when she realized that she had caught the interest of one of the men.