A challenge, Surion replied in her thoughts, eyes transfixed on the Archon's blades. What to the ordinary Dark Eldar had been the undeniable beauty of this Wych off to the side (that even she had to admit defied her low-born vocabulary), had been the Archon's silver blade to the artisan. She'd paid the group some mind on the way over, but beyond Ave'ras, they were all strangers - her eyes could pierce worksmanship, but not showmanship; who knew what intents and goals hid behind smiling faces? - and while the exotic armaments of the Incubi were enticing in a sense their wielders probably did not entirely appreciate, neither people nor other objects in this place compared to the sheer attractive force of the sword.

But what would she reply? Luckily, others had spoken up before her, and the blond darkling took this time to compose a less offensive, perhaps more poetic phrase. "A patron with a commission", Surion eventually said, more quietly than she wanted, and perhaps more obtuse than she'd preferred. But the arrogant Half-Born lacked the eloquence to express the metaphor in her mind better.

<Thû>

<Earlier>

Thû smiles enigmatically behind his mask at the Archon's words and gives a measured shrug that could mean anything at all.

"Their bones merely make a more forgiving canvas for a learning artist like myself, is all, Lord," he comments modestly as he turns to follow Zar'uil.

<Now>

Thû makes a point to position himself just so with relation to Zar'uil as the others enter - within arm's reach, and at the Archon's right hand, suggesting trust and importance to observers unfamiliar with the true nature of their relationship. Honestly, not at all hard to do in a casual fashion, given he had arrived in the room on the Archon's heels.

The others would see no obvious indicators of his true nature as they enter - merely an enigmatic figure swathed entirely in a midnight-blue cape and cowl, face obscured by an ivory skull masque with no mouth, standing in perfect silence at Zar'uil's right hand. However, subtle indicators of wrongness about him might give clues as to the true nature of the being hid beneath, such as how the shadows seem to hug him a little too closely, even in a well-lit room.

For his part, he maintains a statuesque stillness so complete that not a single fold of his cloak twitches, appearing to not so much as breathe. Observing the coterie of new hires as they file into the room through the eyeholes of his masque - and with all of his senses besides - he takes note of all the little details so utterly pertinent to one his trade. Their carriage, their gait, who they walk with, who they distance themselves from, the glances, whispers, silences and subtle snubs that pass between them, bulges in clothing that might conceal weapons or baubles of worth, hands hovering or patting compulsively at various regions of anatomy that might conceal the same, the timbre of their voices, inflections that might indicate where they were raised or had spent lengths of time, the scents emanating from their bodies and clinging to their clothes. And that was just what he could perceive with his fleshly senses. Give him some time in the dark with them, and the Shadow would reveal yet more.

Without moving at all, his eyes pan over individuals, marking them out as he begins to shape a narrative about each one, starting a personal docket for each one that will never leave the inside of his own brain.

The veteran Kabalite warrior, with his curiously subdued demeanour. Rather less strut and bluster about him than would be typical of a mercenary seeking new employ. One to watch.

The Wych. Some degree of measured restraint about her suggests there is more to this one than a simple hedonistic bloodletter, and her upright confidence speaks of the entitlement that comes with high birth.

The Artisan, bearing the tools of her trade. Fierce, nervous energy emanates from this one's every movement and gesture, and not least from her face. Ambition and insecurity both in plentiful supply.

The two Incubi - one male, one female - both so typical of their stoic fraternity, in their heavy armour, bearing the weapons of their order.

The grinning Haemonculus, looking out at all the world as though it were all his own private joke...or playground. Possibly both. Alien, inscrutable and unnerving...in all, quite typical of his order, and perhaps closer to the Shadewalkers of Aelindrach for all that.

As the Archon gazes out over his view of Commorragh and asks his question of them all, Thû maintains silence - simultaneously placing himself outside those being questioned and spoken down to, while giving himself a chance to observe their responses to the Archon's test, quite well understanding the true significance of the man's question.

Admittedly, seeing this... Archon merely made the woman scowl a bit under her helm, her distaste fortunately hidden out of sight, indiscernible. She had hoped that perhaps she would have found an employer who seemed dependable, Perhaps one she could actually call an 'ally' in some vague way, but~...
She wasn't quite jaded to think that he already wasn't possibly going to be in that department, thoiugh at the very least he was one she'd be wary about. The punisher halberd that rested against her shoulder had its grip tightened ever so slightly as her helm turned to look over the others.

Why didn't I just take to my heritage? We have no damned ranged weapons; a splintercannon would at least be marginally useful here...
Of course, seeing another Incubus did at least relax her shoulders marginally, her mind acknowledging that she at least had someone to count on in the times to come.

Her form was not covered in the least, the Warsuit showing every spike, dent, scar and curve of the plating; it was admittedly difficult (if not impossible to some) to discern that she was a woman. There weren't very much other weapons on her aside from the Warsuit itself, the talons set in the very fingers as well as the spikes here and there.
Where she stood though, was notably away from the Haemonculus; she seemed at least content with her body to stay as is, no modifications or the like.

When she was brought to the the chamber Heltherith was rather awed by the whole display that she was seeing from the room, despite being rounded up like an animal thanks to the guards. Sure, she saw that her other compatriots were a rather diverse bunch, from Incubi, a Kabalite, some sort of craftswoman, a Haemonculus and the Beastmaster she had patched up earlier. Evidently, an odd bunch of recruits to for someone high up to see.

Looking at the dais, Mertrixa cast her eyes at the beast (creepy), the Archon (intimidating), the other Wych (vain?) and the Archon's guards (same old, same old). Course, seeing a Mandrake was a brake from the normal things she'd expect to be on retainer for an Archon, most like a favored assassin given the knowledge about what Mandrakes can do.
She was sure that she'd have time to fully meet everyone and at least get the semblance of a working relationship, or failing that avoid making foes of them if she decided to go for a power play should the current leadership prove that they were not up to the task. Obviously, she wasn't expecting to do that, but it was always a plan worth considering.

Finally, there was the reveal of them being picked for a reason (which put the Wych on her toes already, considering that might mean the Archon knew about her past and so have leverage on her) and the view the parting walls provided alongside with that question. Naturally Heltherith replied "An opportunity." She was keeping her head high and with her arms folded to make it clear that despite the awe of the room, it was hardly as if that was going to have any sustained effect on her considering the need to do what they were recruited for and well.... She wasn't intending to bend her knees so easily as she had done in the past.

<Briefing>

"Opportunity," Archon repeated, his jaw tightening as his black gaze fell upon the far away spires, "Opportunity for the ambitious. Death for the foolish. After all, isn't that what makes us all who we are? The ability to act upon such impulses and shape the variables to meet our ends?"

He asked none in particular and even allowed himself a slight smile. "Indeed my sweet Bladesmith, I do have a commission for all of you."

Now also pointing his finger towards the three spires, he began talking in a more formal tone. "Those three spires and the area around them form the domain of the Kabal of the Severed Hope. Their Archon, a female of admirable malice called Khelia, died two weeks ago when her personal Ravager experienced malfunction and slammed into the ground, exploding afterwards and incinerating everyone on board, thus allowing for no miraculous resurrection."

"With the death of its leader, Kabal was plunged into a "civil" war, the few ambitious persons fighting for control. Many of them died and only three most capable and cunning individuals survived, each taking hold of one of the spires and area around it, which led to a stalemate as all three sides are somewhat equal in strength."

"First one is Dracon Uril, a pirate and a scoundrel, who used to be second in command in the old Kabal, now controlling the biggest part of its former military power with many Kabalite warriors under his lead. Second one is Haemonculus Xurilith, him belonging to some lesser coven but having enough skill and ambition to try and seize the Kabal's assets for his own purposes. At the moment, he is holding on his own with the mix of his arcane sciences and an army of flesh things he personally created. Third and final pretender for the throne is a Wych called Zalaya, the youngest member of the trio but the most dangerous one physically. Her skill with blade is well known and although having the smallest force, she managed to recruit the most deadly fighters in the old Kabal, many of them members of the Wych cult as well, which helped her hold a significant amount of territory under her control."

Zar'uil then turned towards the newcomers, his eyes now radiating with a healthy mix of anger and deviousness. "I might've brought you here because I heard of your skills, but hearing about something and actually seeing it in action are two different things. I have a great plan for this Kabal and to achieve it, I need lieutenants, but I am not going to hire them simply by their looks. So, it is up to you to make me see that you are worthy of my time and up for the task."

"I want you to go to what remains of the leadership of Kabal of the Severed Hope, use whatever means necessary - be it guile, force or simple cunning, and bring them into my fold. Kill them, persuade them, blackmail them, I care not. I only care that by the end of the day, whatever is left of that Kabal is assimilated into Crimson Moon. I shall provide you with the way to reach that territory unmolested and give you couple of trinkets to help you with the task, but nothing else. The details of the plan and everything coming with it I leave to you. Is that clear?"

OOC also, if you have any questions to ask him, now is the time
@Wata @Vlayden @kanila @Draconion @Maleth @Vulpas @Casavay @bossaroo

Taking in the visage of the Archon silhouetted by the backdrop of the Nether Gale was truly inspiring. More impressive was the fact that they were being offered a position as lieutenants.... if they could prove their worth of course. Nodding towards the Archon, the eyes of the mask ever unblinking. "Trinkets... what sort of trinkets?" Sparring a brief glance around at the kabalite guards. "Are the kabalites part of this 'protection' through the territory?" Smirking once again under his mask, hoping he may have the opportunity to further humiliate the kabalite that harassed him earlier.

As he waited for the response, his mind raced at all the possibilities! His own stable of beasts, oh the destruction he could spread! Out of the corner of his eye he saw the shadow beast again, if he became a lieutenant of the Crimson Moon he could learn where the Archon found such a legendary beast and have one for his very own! He had to focus back on the present so he would not be lost in the future! He eagerly awaited the Archons reply.

"Ammo, grenades, the usual stuff," Zar'uil replied to the Beastmaster. "As for the protection, you will be under care of my Seneschal, Lord Kouron, and his men," he nodded towards the halberd-wielding Dracon they knew from before, who in turn gave a slight bow. "He is quite capable, so you won't have trouble reaching the place in one piece."

Ave'ras listened carefully as each individual asked and spoke their mind the Archon responding in kind several thoughts pouring into his mind, he thought carefully as he picked his words with care . The attention the blade-smith paid to the archon's weapon must mean something and he wished not to find out ."Lord Zar'uil, i have a few questions . I will speak quickly so as to waste none of our time. What positions of standing if any are we allowed to offer " as he spoke he sounded almost shy as he spoke to the archon directly "and if necessary grant them" the last phrase he said as if it left a bad taste in his mouth before sinking back to his previous mannerism " and quite cruicially is there any particular time-frame we have to conform to"

As Ave'ras he spoke he thought as to whom is the most silver tounged in the group and hoped that they were moderatley competent

A sinister smile was hidden behind his mask, but it crept into his speech. "It seems I may have the opportunity to return this blade to its owner." His voice dripped of sinister intentions as he continued. "He 'dropped' it during our last encounter, and surely he is missing it." He watched the Archon for any tells of his mood in regards to his words. Aesra was certain the Archon had known of the fight but was keeping his cards close to his chest. Just by the brief meeting he could sense that Archon Zar'uil respected power, and Aesra wanted to prove that he would not be found wanting from the beastmaster.

"Any of this competition have some weakness to exploit that we know of?"
Kaesar asked while looking toward the spires, malice in his voice. He stroked his chin in thought. Anticipating the violence he could unleash with a smile on his face, equally cruel and playful.