While strolling the streets of Ardoris, I came across a poor and desperate soul, who seemed quite down on his luck. His clothes were a shambles and he mumbled gibberish due to lack of a hot meal and ale. I felt he was in need shelter for the night, and offered coins for his lodgings. But he insisted he not take charity and instead performed a small bit of pageantry for my amusement. I knew this chap had become separated from the carnival.

He chose interpretive dance with a hint of fire juggling. I dare say he was quite good, though he nearly incinerated the both of us. Whisking the fire between his legs was quite a flourish, but, as I am so familiar, his pants were his downfall.

The voluminous material was the improper choice for his finale, and with an errant flick of the wrist, disaster struck. There was no permanent injury and I felt it best to hand over the coins before castaway flames made their way into the alchemy shop and caused a catastrophe with the exploding potions.


Very well my good man. Proceed with your juggling stylings. I am all attention.

More brilliant musings about my adventures in New Britannia

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