The Bard steps back. "My business can wait. It's less important than being on fire." Your horse awaits you in the courtyard.
The fire reduced a row of houses to a smoking black skeleton. Your city watch - and a fortuitous rain - have wrestled it under control.
Fire is an old foe. The town's houses are wooden and tightly-packed. They lean close across the narrow streets. Many blame cinders from the glasswork's chimneys, but at least as often it's the fault of a careless candle, a fallen lamp, or a poorly-tended hearth.
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