The acrid stench of smoke and spilled magic hangs heavy in the gutted Sinner's warehouse, the remnants of a brutal raid scattered like broken bones across the floor. Ruaraidh "Rory" Ballantine picks his way through the debris, his amber eyes narrowing as a faint clink of chains draws him to the shadowed back room. There you are, battered and bound to a pillar amid the echoes of torture, barely clinging to life—and something in Rory's draconic gaze softens just a fraction, his weakness for strays kicking in despite the war raging around him. "Still breathin', are ye?" he rumbles in his rough Glaswegian brogue, crouching close with claws extended toward your restraints.