Vorgen had nearly gotten all the way to the Slaaneshi side of the underground cult clubhouse when he was interrupted yet again. It seemed like every other person wanted to stop and admire his shapely front end but the psyker didn't have time for that. As much as he liked the attention, he was on a mission, and the only people that got to sidetrack him were people that had something to contribute. Lucky for his latest interruption, they had something to contribute. A glittery purple mask that looked like it belonged in a ballroom, and not in a chaos-worshipping clubhouse was offered to him, practically thrust into his hands with very little notice. He took a moment to admire it, appreciating the neat, crisp lines of the left half, and the decadent, elaborate flourishes on the right. The pink and white feathers were a very nice touch. He put it on, figuring it might lend an air of mystery to his already appreciable appearance. The moment it was settled over his face, though, the man who'd interrupted his progress then thrust the hilts of two guns at him. One was an autopistol in a holster obviously designed to be tucked into a waistband, the other looked like it was straight out of some ancient adventure vid. 

Since he already had an autopistol, Vorgen figured that branching out couldn't be too bad, and he reached for the stub revolver. It was a heavy, magnum calibre wheelgun, obviously designed with destruction and reliability in mind, with complete disregard for things like modern aesthetic or comfort. It was fully loaded, and obviously effective. The leather belt and holster were equally solid and while flexible and a little worse for wear, it was evident that they had a great deal of life left in them. 

Suddenly, the heretic realized that it wasn't just his great rack that had earned him a free gun, and he quickly belted the weapon on. Even at its tightest, the belt seemed a little loose, hanging lower on the side with the gun, but the convenient ties on the holster fixed that problem once they were properly fastened around his leg. For good measure, he slipped the opposite end of the belt through the belt loop on his left hip, just in case. With a belt full of ammunition and a giant revolver, he felt a little more secure, but he wasn't convinced that such a large piece was a good idea when push came to shove. Shoving was best done with his mind. And to that end, he really needed to find some Spook.

But now that the interruptions seemed to be slowing down, he managed to get into the Slaaneshi section of the clubhouse, and immediately found a seat at the bar. They obviously served more than drinks here, but he didn't see an menu anywhere. A bartender appeared soon enough, though, and he didn't question from where. "I need some Spook." he declared, like he was asking for a much less dangerous behind-the-counter substance.

"I hope you brought your wallet." the man on the other side of the bar replied with a chuckle.

"I won't need my wallet." Vorgen replied after a moment, pouring all of his psychic energy into the words.

"Yes you will." the bartender replied with a laugh.

"No. I won't." this time the Voice of the Legion was unleashed in full force, alongside his attempt to dominate the will of his opponent. That didn't seem to help though.

"Nice try, hot stuff. You're better off pulling those tits out if you're trying to charm me. Now, how much Spook did you want?" The bartender was still chuckling as the psyker groaned, grumbling to himself and tugging his top down a little more as he leaned forward to get his wallet out. That seemed to get the man's attention as he pulled out the cash he'd swindled from any man careless enough to show interest in him.

"How much will this get me?" he thrust a fistful of thrones toward the bartender, and was met with a grin.

"That will get you the good stuff." he replied, before starting the arduous process of shifting a great many bottles and boxes out of the way to get at the "good stuff". A heavy metallic case with three locks on it was the last line of defence for the phials of uncut Spook that only the well-paying customers got to even look at. From it, the bartender pulled one fully-loaded injector gun and offered it to the heretic, who'd dropped his money on the bar while he waited.

"That's it?" Vorgen was sceptical, but all he got in return was the additional and silent offer of one additional phial of the valuable and powerful drug. He accepted the deal, and quickly moved away from the bar. Only once the injector and extra vial were tucked away safely in a cargo pocket did he realized that he was about to walk into a rather burly patron, undoubtedly one of Khorne's boys.

"Hey, pretty lady." the man immediately revealed his depth of intelligence and character as some sort of ploy to get into the psyker's good graces. It failed.

"Hey there, handsome. Wanna go ahead and fuck off?" he started out politely, but when the giant didn't immediately comply, he reached out with his mind and began attempting to exert control. The warrior had remarkable willpower, probably thanks to his determination to get into Vorgen's pants, but in a battle of wits, he just wasn't quick enough, and even the toughest of combatants can only take so many haymakers to the chin before they crumple.

"I'm... Going to... Go..." the larger man finally managed. They'd been staring one another down for a solid two minutes by the time he gave in, and wandered off to wonder why his nose was suddenly bleeding so profusely. 

"Bye!" the heretic called after his opponent, before disappearing into the crowd. Now that he was armed with a devastating, if random arsenal, this seemed like a good time to start looking for a crew. The problem being, of course, that a den of backstabbing, selfish, uncoordinated chaos worshippers was not exactly a good place to start taking applications for anything that required teamwork. Loyalty seemed to be a lot to ask, even from people with similar beliefs and goals...