The room was a disturbing mixture of stuffy and dank. He felt like a chunk of mold was bound to plummet from ceiling right onto the tip of his nose. That thought ended with an impulsive expression of disgust and a wrinkling of the nose before he took another hit to his chin, forcing him back into the present. He was being assaulted by a poorly-dressed Human, presumably some low-class thug.

“Ow. Shit, that hurts. You guys really can’t just… kill me already? Or, better yet- and here’s a real doozy of a thought,- you could let me go.” The suggestion ended with a backhand. Better than another sock to the face, he figured.

“You crisped all our shit. Burnt the whole wharf to a crisp, street-bitches and all.”

“And where exactly are we now, praytell? Since the warehouse is.. Uh..-” Ouch. Back to being punched in the face. Sweet. He didn't remember being put in the chair, so his theory of having been kidnapped was only amplified by the pounding headache in his skull. This definitely isn't my native realm. His assumption was inter-dimensional kidnapping. A new norm for him.

He figured they had taken him deeper into the city, as it didn’t smell like rotten fish or seagull-stew at the time, but it had to be somewhere just as gross. Yep, that- there goes the mold. Onto his nose. From the ceiling. Violently unpleasant.

A plague rat scurried back into the inky-black corner behind his assailant. He contemplated his relationship with this unsavory individual- a humble fan, trying to get him to snap? A journalist, looking for a good take on a kidnapped individual? It's me. I'm the kidnapped individual.

Another backhand brought him back from reminiscing. He quickly regained his composure and began complaining.

“Listen, I’m sure you have better shit to be doing right now than shitting on me. Fire magic can be unintentionally expelled when you’re not concentrating, and I was fuckin' your sister-mother-wife-niece real good behind one of those crates, so-"

“Enough!” The thug pulled a knife, drawing it to the Pyromancer’s neck and hushing to a provocative whisper. “Maybe you're right. I’ll end you right here.”

The door flew open, and an bright individual wearing untarnished white armor adorned with twelve purple stamps, seals, and ribbons stepped into the room. Fahlnem took the opportunity to melt through the rope tying his hands to the chair, and a blue arc streaked through his eyes.

The smell of ozone was so overpowering in the room across the hall that it almost made the thug guarding the door gag. A half-second later, a blinding violet flash broke through the cracks in the door, and a stifled yell from his boss prompted the guard to enter the makeshift wizard cell. A few thugs rushed in behind him, only to see a very pissy crime boss with a dagger stuck to his charred hand. The Pyromancer glanced up to the procession as the boss shouted to his cronies, taking his leave from the establishment.

“We got feds on us! Split!"

“Shit." Do all criminals talk like that?

By the time he had stumbled from the building, starved for mana, the boss was gone. Likewise, he figured he had lost the armor-clad individual that disrupted the interrogation to begin with.

"Really gonna have to track this shithead down now, huh?" The Pyromancer mused to himself, half-limping down the street with a sigh.