Negative human tropism. It's what you've always wanted isn't it? The least likely place for humans to habituate is the best place for a legal mage to hibernate; surely. Every time you glimpse a glimmer of human activity you duck down the opposite lane. You find a slippery staircase and descend into the steamy gloom, and then another staircase presents itself.... this basement has a basement. On and on, danker and darker. Steamier and hotter. Wet, slick, narsty smelling hole, there you are. Stumbling over your own feet and gluttony of sloppily constructed piping, you trip, and land face first into a pile of pulp. Looking up, smoke rings curl through the steam: in front of you lies the Legal Mage, puffing on an absurdly long pipe constructed from a feathered fountain pen.
"No need to go fumbly dumbly into my lair son, I know why you're here," he states before leisurely puffing his quill.
"Sir... my god you exist! This is amazing! How can this be! I thought you were but a myth!"
"Ah... it's amazing what you can hide with some creative requisition codes, and an invented department. You ever heard of this mill's prolific Beuro-Grade Paper products?"
"No sir!"
"Well keep it to yourself then, we have a modest quarterly budget, but it was enough to buy this nifty but functional sofa. Seat yourself, but first brush that nasty pulp off okay? House-keeping." He hands you a wire brush with which you briskly cleanse your camo-gear of the offensive product.
"This is all pretty overwhelming Mr. Mage," you stutter as you take your seat.
"Please, please child! Call me Joe!"
"Okay Joe.... listen; I've stumbled upon something pretty disturbing, I need help destroying the dastardly inter-dimensional demons which rule this sorry excuse for a society."
"Yes.... I know them well... the Beuro-bots. It is for their sake that I entered the mystical legal profession in the first place. They are a powerful and disturbing force within this universe. Many eons ago, as I researched their carefully crafted legal foundation, I realized that the immense mounds of documents that would be needed to vanquish them far exceeded what I could scrounge up from the good-will of this town, so I secured a job here when this mill still made that horrific chemical pulp operating the digesters. When they shut those down, I simply slipped away into the depths of obsolete equipment, and found myself trapped here with all the infinite potential of these reams of virgin paper. I.... I.... I don't even know where to start anymore."
Holy shit! This is right fucked! Does this guy even have magic powers, or is he just some deranged hobo hiding in the hydrogen sulfide enriched ambiance? Holy Mackanoly!