Noctis Domini - Commoragh's Upper Class Archon's Club

Welcome to Noctis Domini, oh revered Archon. You have stumbled upon, what is most likely the most revered and quite possibly only Archon's club in all of Commoragh. This makes us really exclusive, so respect our clear superiority in that regard. For as long as you are on club grounds, you are expected to show respectful behaviour to your fellow Archons. Certainly we understand here at Noctis Domini backstabbing, skullduggery and other such incursions are part of your daily schedual, but please refrain from such activities while enjoying the many facilities our club has to offer.

We aren't short of any such facilities as is to be assumed of a club our status. Within the confines of our massive arrangement you shall find all the pleasures the old Eldar empire could have offered you and more. This includes, out of many: A wine cellar, several smoky lounge rooms, some not so smoky lounge rooms, an atrium with great outlook on our stolen suns, private garden and laboratory for poison brewing purposes, a yacht bay and billiards room. Playing snooker however is prohibited since such behaviour is befitting of only something as lowly as a Hellion. Pagh!

Of course we would not live up to our reputation if we did not have a varied selection of discrete staff members who will most gladly be of your service while residing in the club. Among these are several private yacht captains, butlers, servants, guards, concubines and two haemonculae ready to treat any ailments you may suffer from. All of our staff members are excellently trained and well versed in their profession. This of course includes the concubines who would only be most delighted to share our bedchambers with you... Ohohohoh!

Furthermore, we occasionally recieve guests from a variety of places to stand in awe at the great achievements of us, the mighty Archons of Commoragh. We do request that these guests are treated with the same respect shown among other members. Of course... This does not mean that any misbehaviour on our revered guest's side should not go unpunished. We also host an occasional Yacht trip to enjoy our sheer superiority over the minor races. During such trip you are encouraged to bring your most prized tools to ensure an enjoyable hunt.

If there are any other questions, you are encouraged to speak with the club management who will make sure your stay is not trivialized by any inconveniences. The stash of vintage brandy may also be accessed on request and any initiatives to improve the club are of course appreciated. If you then so desire, please take your membership bloodstone badge and enter the most exclusive place in all of Commoragh shy of Lord Asraduabel's Court.

In clarification of the rules:
So how does one proceed to roleplay on this board? As may perhaps be implied, the roleplay offered in this thread is of a very loose and light-hearted nature. The general order of operations should be to first introduce one's character, or indeed characters which one will then proceed to allow to roam around and interact with the environment. There is no set length for any post, but at least half a paragraph per character is of course appreciated. As an example, I shall create three characters which will not only exist for demonstration purposes, but likely stick around for the rest of the roleplay.
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Dummy Player 1:
Introduction: Lord Garich
Garich is most likely one of the older Archons present in the club. He has indeed been around since the very beginning and likes to hold this fact against some of the newer members. This may however be because of the fact his own actual power is in decline, and his status within Noctis Domini is one of the few things to actually support his continued power. He has a very cranky and conservative nature and is one of the more accomplished billiard players on this side of Commoragh. He is also of the firm belief status means everything, causing him to often doubt the accomplishments of those without a trueborn legacy such as his own.

Garich walked around the billiards table with a glass of brandy in his right hand. He had grown bored of the fickle matters his kabal concerned him with, but at the same time he refused to give any of it up. What would the other Archons think of him? He poured half the glass down his throat as his gaze was fixed on the door of the room, waiting for a potential adversary to join him at his most favored game.
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Dummy Player 2:
Introduction: Archon Caedmon Taerich
Noctis Domini's own patron. Caedmon has distinguished himself as a charismatic character that seems to be able to appear just about everywhere in the club. While indeed not among the first members he is at least known as one the most memorable ones. He often carries himself with a smug smirk on his face and knows anyone who goes in and out and has his own little influence circle among the club's staff. His company however is often enjoyed, even by the most reclusive of members.

Caedmon opened the door to the billards room in his usual exemplary fashion. He greeted Garich in his most delighted voice "Hello again Garich, you haven't been hanging around here all day have you?". He walked over to the billiards table and grabbed himself a cue. "Tell you what, I'll order one of the servants to bring up a mon'keigh and an assortment of tools to work with, and every time one of us scores a point you get a minute to enjoy it's lamentations. Sound alright, ol' Garich?"

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Dummy Player 1:
"I wouldn't believe the likes of you would still challenge me to a game, especially after your last few defeats... Heheheh. But how can I turn down SUCH a generous offer." Garich states in a dark almost eerie tone. He too takes one of the cues and walks over to the table. He sets up the game and shouts to the communication horn "Get us a mon'keigh and torture tools in here right now! And hurry, I'm getting bored.". Garich looks over to the table and then leans both his hands on the sides. He lifts his head towards Caedmon, simply stating "First turn's mine."

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Dummy Player 3:
Character Introduction: Archon and former Succubus Flanna Cait
Flanna is most likely know as one of the most curious Druchii scattered around Commoragh. She has, by any stretch of the imagination had some of the most interesting "career paths" any denizen of the 41st milennium. As a vat grown Dark Eldar she was recruited into a wych cult and had shown exemplary skill at the executions of her kills. Not because she was so well trained with her weapons, but because she wanted to know in what ways she could make organs fling about with the myriad of options she had avaliable to her in terms of cutting, slicing and bashing. Her curiousity was reflected in her combat drug usage too, going out of her way to make sure she had the most exotic of rushes gushing through her body. Of course, this grew boring after a while, so she defeated the cult's Succubus in the most gruesome of manners.

After claiming her "rightful place" at the top however, she too grew bored of this after a while, so she got the entire cult to fight a deathmatch with each other to be able to claim a spot as the new succubus as her own eyes were aimed at new horizons. She would, after a short period of disappearing entirely pop up as the Archon of a relatively small Kabal after dyeing the throne room in the former Archon's blood. With this, she made happy use of the torture chambers which now hold countless victims from all over the galaxy so Flanna can enjoy the myriad of ways she can torture and hurt and/or kill them. Often even allowing her kabalites the same privilege just to see how much they enjoy it.

She has long hair which she drapes over her back with an assortment of adornments weaved inbetween. Her volupous lips too are one of the defining features she is often recognized with, and aside from making happy use of an Archon's armor, most of her outfit still makes use of the wych suit she recieved as a Succubus, so as to not impair the freedom of movement she so enjoys. Aside from that she's a rather enthusiastic character and due to her curiosity never shies away from trying out new experiences. (Yes that's her background done.)

As the servant comes walking into the billiards room the muffled and fearful looking mon'keigh with her, Flanna seems to make quick pace behind her with a curious look on her face. She looks at Garich and Caedmon both standing near the Billiards table to which she quickly asks "Oooh, you're going to torture him while playing a game? ...Can I join?". Flanna makes rapid pace into the room and grabs herself a cue without waiting for a response. She walks over to the mon'keigh and leans over to him with a wide smile on her face and pokes him with her cue. "I sure hope you're enjoying this as much as I am." she continues to tell him with a devious undertone in her voice as she continues to poke him.  The mon'keigh gives muffled screams as sweat starts to appear on his face, his eyes turning to the rack of torture tools  which are brought into the room by another servant.
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Dummy Player 1:
Garich looks disapprovingly at Flanna, giving an annoyed sigh. "We really have hit an all time low when we allow lowly vat borns like yourself a place among us elites." he says in a cranky voice as he looks over to the table once more. He gives a smirk after which he continues "But it matters not, knowing my excellent mastery of this game I probably will be enjoying the mon'keighs lamentations more than any of you, heheheheh."
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Dummy Player 2:
"Hah, as if you're one to speak ol' Garich!" Caedmon says in a cynical yet cheerful tone. "Surely you haven't forgotten Flanna's kabal here is sapping away at your own members. I'm fairly sure she currently has almost double the assets you used to own." he continues mockingly, giving a satisfied chuckle. "Ah, but I understand why you could be so mad at her. Surely ol' Archons like yourself Garich don't forget their allies being taken down so easily by womanly charms... Isn't that right Flanna? Hah!"
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Dummy Player 3:
"Yes! Ol' Garich is a little jealous his oh so trusted friend couldn't resist the temptations of my backroom. It's just... A shame it ended with such an accident." Flanna says with a twisted satisfaction and smile on her face. She continues to look back at the mon'keigh "If you want, I can show you exactly what I did to him. Ok?". Flanna continues to walk back to the table and gives one more provocating look at Garich before leaning on her cue near the table and asking excitedly "So! Shall we begin?"
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Afterword
Please feel free to join in from this point if you wish, or continue to use the rest of the club for your own enjoyment. Everyone is welcome and most importantly, enjoy!

Mistress Vriss Selventhrane, Master Haemonculus of the Coven of the Remade Helix, dressed in the simplicity of a plain labcoat and a glossy black skinsuit fronted by a simple, hard-wearing apron and with her hair held back in a rather severe bun was not the most typical of the exclusive Club's patrons. Nevertheless, the cheerful Haemonculus sauntered her way across to her usual spot, a seat on a balcony overlooking one of the major arenas - that is to say, socialising areas of the building. It was difficult to tell if she was smiling; her mouth had no lips, the sensory endings of these having been temporarily relocated to two slender feelers either side of her temples. Her tiny, booted feet made precise little clicks as she crossed the floor, swaying slightly as if to music only she could hear.

In fact, this was the case. In consultation with one of her fellow Flesh-Crafters she had entered into an amusing experiment to see if the precise shaping of the mitral and tricuspid valves would add a certain musicality to the rhythm of her heartbeat. So far the experience was proving quite delightful. She sank down into an overstuffed armchair and took out a datacrystal filled with notes on her latest Scourge-in-progress, the tiny attached monitor giving her a readout of his vital signs. A sigh escaped her; such transcendant agonies, all in the wish to be as angels. If she hadn't arranged for a pain-syphon to collect the delicious energies, she might be feeling quite wistful.

As it was she was happily satisfied that some time off could be usefully enjoyed, and with a wave to the obedient server she settled in to see what patrons the evening brought. The fearful tubeborn brought her a small glass of a wine so old that its grapes knew the touch of the sun of the ancient Eldar homeworlds. Strange fellow; he had the slight beginnings of a limp on his left side. Mistress Selventhrane could fix that up in a jiffy. Given, of course, that the evening brought nothing more diverting.

Yrithan Sallbairn, Lord and rarely disputed master, of the Kabal of the Inverted Fractal stepped through the threshold portal with a serene sense of clarity. Maybe the lack of horns and sycophants greeting him had allowed him a blissful moment of respite from his famed existence.

He had spent so long in his own open domain that the absence of his Kabal's banners was almost offensive, but then he remembered why he was here. It was to get away from such trivial things as power plays and organising the next spectacle.

Yes, he was technically an Archon, but his routes were in the Wych Cult of Massacre. His skin was pail enough to make snow jealous and his piercing yellow eyes shone like miniature stars from deeply set sockets. His legs were armoured ornately with the black and silver of Massacre; he always believed it foolish to forget one's origins. His torso was exposed to reveal not a single scar across his perfectly toned body. The only marks present were the variety of miniature murals depicting his greatest victory that he had etched onto his flesh to remind those present of what he did to traitors.
A long fur cloak was pinned upon his shoulders by two bladed pauldrons, seemingly crafted onto his naked flesh.

From behind his sharp nose he looked to the guest that had already arrived and bowed before standing firmly with a perfect posture, theatrically swishing his hip-length white hair over his shoulders.

“My most humble greetings, master fleshcrafter. I do not believe I have made you acquiantance. Yrithan Sallbairn of the Kabal of the Inverted Fractal, child of T'llionnoch, former Syren of the Wych Cult of Massacre.”
And with that he grinned his charismatic grin, maintaining a respectful distance as not to offend the other guest.

Mistress Vriss Selventhrane was a keen admirer of the body. True, perhaps not in the way most often connected with the Wych Cults, but an admirer nevertheless. As she glanced up from her dataslate, alerted by her excellent peripheral vision, her eyes tracked the Wych-Archon like a laser sight.

"Glorious ..." she muttered under her breath, long-fingered hands sweeping her work away to a forgotten corner of the table. Rising as he approached and struck a pose, she offered the right one to him, with her own words of greeting:

"No indeed, for one such as yourself I would most definitely remember, Archon Sallbairn. I hail from the Coven of the Remade Helix. I work with Archon Ascaron of the Kabal of Night's Destruction. May I say that you have the most beautiful skin." Sitting back down, she made space for the wonderful specimen.

Such a physique! She could hardly have made better herself. She had heard of the famously pale T'llionnoch Trueborn, of their height and athletic proportions - they were something of a coveted item among the Fleshcrafters who tended to be quietly competitive about who gained such knowledge, and the more so in this case as the root of their physical beauty was rumoured to be genetic, imprinted in the genes rather than the vats. The Master Haemonculus scanned the Archon before her as he moved, her eyes drinking in the interplay of musculature and the wonderful bone structure beneath.

"Do forgive me. I am ever the technician of the flesh and I have seldom seen such a perfect body. Unless I am much mistaken, no work has been done? The muscle structure and the bearing all seem to come from birth and training ... A former Syren, you say? However did the dear ladies let you go ..." she reached out, academic curiosity overcoming what was, in any case, a poorly-developed regard for personal space in the face of Science. She flicked back his silken hair and made a little chirping noise of delight as she discovered that the bladed pauldrons were indeed sunk directly into the firm, taut frame before her. With a supreme effort of Will she refrained from reaching to her belt for a little scalpel to test the join, and didn't even run her nail over it, thinking that it does not do to forget oneself, despite the fact that in fact she already had.

"Ahh, I see you are also a devotee of pain ... we have so much to discuss. Be most welcome. Perhaps you would care for some wine?" She favoured him with a delighted smile, the effect from her lipless mouth being very much up to the individual.

"I am Mistress Vriss Selventhrane, and the children say that I make angels."

When one has walked along the path traversed by the noble Wyches of Commorragh for what would be more than a lifetime for the Mon-keigh races there is an arrogance instilled which can never be shaken. The Archon, in his past, had received the desires and fascinations of lesser Archons, dug makers, the most influential slavers and even a Succubus. He had, however, never received the interest of a Master Haemonculus.

He took the proffered hand in a courteous grip, not so hard as to appear paranoid, but firm enough to convey confidence. Every action he made was calculated with acute precision; every move was considered in depth. “The Remade Helix you say? That is fine news indeed. You see, in my past, as many others have, I made a pact with a certain Haemonculus. My choices were limited due to the stringent laws and surveillance held within T'llionoch. I had seen the work of the Remade Helix first hand in an arena far back through the smog of time. It was... glorious.” He looked off and to the side, true admiration underscoring his recollection.

“Thank you for the compliment Master Haemonculus. May I have a name with which to adress you? I find myself longing to be on the same plane of formality with those who seem akin to myself.” He took his own seat facing the Haemonculus and surveyed the room casually. Many Archons liked to seem superior through a façade of aloofness whilst being ever watchful. Sallbairn much preferred to seem somewhat foolish and obvious before cutting the heart out of a foe thought to be unseen.

“There is no need to apologise. I understand completely. The two of us have our own artforms and both should be respected. You are correct, I have received no cosmetic augmentation or enhanced rejuvenate treatment. This is all me.” His smile seemed to go from ear to ear, his perfect teeth lined up and shining. “I had a little issue in the past with combat drugs which may have, at some point in the past, made me look like the Parched, but that is long behind me. Let me say that I do admire your own form. It is truly unique, and in the most fabulous way! There are some who cannot see the beauty in reformation, but to those luddites I say: beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I behold the beauty of your reconstruction.”

After the moment where he awkwardly laughed at the slight intrusion of personal space the Haemonculus introduced herself and he felt that there had been no harm done. He knew what inquiry could do so he took no offence at her proximity.

“Mistress Selventhrane, such a lovely name, suce a delight for the tongue!” He jumped from his chair, suddenly filled with an uncontainable excitement. His eyes flashed with joy. “Yes, let us speak of your angels. The crafting of flesh has always thrilled me and to meet somebody who forges such refined forms is an honour. Prey tell, if it does not interrupt any oathes of secrecy, how does one go about becoming an 'angel', a winged jewel of glory?”

Archon Sallbairn supped at the fine wine and awaited eagerly for an answer. This was certainly going to be a wondrous meeting.

It was always good to earn new contacts.

Mistress Selventhrane listened with rapt attention to the stunning Wych-Archon as he spoke, professing his appreciation for the arts she held so dear. Here was a marvel indeed, one truly able to look beyond the norms of the physical, and, from the peak of athletic perfection, reach out to beyond what could be simply achieved by the baseline of nature. What a student he might make of the fleshcrafting arts! Sallbairn had the spirit of enquiry so necessary to the study of a Haemonculus, but he also hinted at having the vision. It was turning out to be quite a promising evening indeed. She studied the movement of his mouth as he spoke, watching the lips, the tongue, the perfectly even teeth. Nothing to work needed miracles upon, in the ordinary line of vanity, but wrapped in the guizing-mask of a Scourge ... some sharp little fangs, perhaps, or a poisoned bite. Certainly not a beak. For such a specimen, that simply wouldn't do. Far too crude. She filed away the information about his previous brush with combat drugs internally, content to concentrate on the matter at hand.

"... Let me say that I do admire your own form. It is truly unique, and in the most fabulous way! There are some who cannot see the beauty in reformation, but to those luddites I say: beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I behold the beauty of your reconstruction.” At his courtly words Vriss permitted herself a slight flush to her pearly grey cheeks, the slightest hint of sunrise on the clouds. Such a delightful, attentive conversationalist. Those who truly appreciated the ways of the Covens (or even those prepared to feign a suitable interest) were few indeed.

"My thanks Archon, too kind, too kind ..." she murmured. "And you know of our work ... the Dark Muses have smiled upon our meeting."

All at once the excitable Wych-Archon virtually leapt from his chair, eyes bright with the promise of a new idea.

“... Yes, let us speak of your angels. The crafting of flesh has always thrilled me and to meet somebody who forges such refined forms is an honour. Prey tell, if it does not interrupt any oathes of secrecy, how does one go about becoming an 'angel', a winged jewel of glory?”

The Master Haemonculus felt quite swept up in the moment. In the background, centuries of study and a touch of regal paranoia went about their daily business, of course, but after all, she was on a day off.

"My dear Archon, it would be a pleasure." She took up her own glass and tilted it in salute. She held out her free arm, as one might at a courtly function, so that they might stroll together to one of the balconies that overlooked the pleasure gardens surrounding the exclusive club.

"Observe," she began, having sighted just the example she needed, wheeling in the artificial skies above, soaring on one of the thermals created by the nameless depths of the Dark City, "the air above us. Claimed by Hellions and other such riffraff in the lower reaches, and by those rather excitable Reavers on a temporary basis in the name of sport. Necessity, or idleness? One might speculate endlessly. But for a Scourge, the desire for flight is the seed. It begins, not with a desire for physical transformation, but with a need to leave the ground."

She sipped at her wine, turning back to the lovely intellect beside her.

"Archon Sallbairn, do you have the desire to fly? In a Scourge it is magnified. It is given form, emphasis, it becomes a living, gnawing need. In order to become an angel, one must possess and be possessed by a consuming urge, a lust, to leave behind earthly things and become a creature of the air."

She sighted the flying messenger, coolly detached, making a sweep to land on the club's roof. Not one of her own, though she could doubtless prevail upon one such to come to her aid for an impromptu demonstration if one should be required.

"Observe if you will the lightness with which he soars, that proud, dark angel. With your clear eyes you will doubtless see the tubes of the injector harness which supplies extra adrenalising factors and stimulants to the developed musculature. One must alter the form, but Dark Muses forbid form should altogether follow function. You see, a Scourge does not want to look as a razorwing or pterasaur. Their own form, graced with wings, is what they desire in order to fulfill the most ancient dream of our kind. For the second item on our list of what one needs to become a Scourge is a quite magnificent profusion of hubris. One must want to take to the air, yes; but one must also want to wrest it from the very gods who claimed it once, long ago, and defy the natural order of earthbound things while denying that one's own form is deficient in any way to bring this about."

She smiled, fondly remembering the first supplicant to submit himself to her own drills and delicate instruments, under the watchful eye of her former Master and teacher. Such a symphony ... her apprentice-angel would always have a place in her heart, where she supposed another might fondly remember a first kiss.

"Thirdly, having both cultivated the Will and nourished the vanity of one's desires, one must supply a sufficient payment of soul-chits - no trifling amount, for the process is complex and expensive - no trouble at all to one such as yourself, of course, but to others a significant sum - all that then remains is a test of the Self."

Vriss' lipless mouth curled upwards in an enchanted smile at the thought.

"You see, it really is a most deliciously painful process."

She paused. Here she was, rattling on, and it would never do to forget one's manners.

"But do forgive me, Archon. I do so tend to discourse at length when on a pet subject of mine. Please, do feel free to ask of me anything that comes to mind. It is all to rare that I get to enjoy such discussion with one so enlightened as yourself."