Urg Bloodstew's Midsummer Misadventure

The east ridge always caught the sun first. Pale light kissed the crest of the mountain, gilding the sandstone archway that formed the temple entrance. Built into the mountainside beneath a precarious overhang, the grotto temple had long been a place for quiet reflection—until Urg made it more.

Candles of beeswax and tallow lined the walls, set into steel holders forged from wreckage: weapons dulled by battles no one wanted to fight, farm tools broken by frost, iron hinges from burned homes. With the help of a local blacksmith, each holder had been melded into the stone walls of the grotto.

And behind the altar, Urg Bloodstew’s mighty war mace hung like a thundercloud. Waiting. Hoping he'd never need it again.

Urg knelt on a folded blanket before the altar, head bowed, hands resting on his knees. The candlelight picked up the green tint of his skin and the pale scars across his arms. His shoulders rose and fell like a bellows as he prayed—for Luthic’s strength, Chauntea’s peace, and those who hadn’t lived to see spring.

Outside, the town was stirring. It was quiet since the battle—too quiet. They’d won, but the victory had left splinters in the soul of the place. Too many beds were empty. Too many windows dark.

It was time for something lighter.

Urg stood slowly, rolling his shoulders with the low crack of a tree flexing in the wind. He quietly put away his prayer rug, changed out of his cleric’s garb, and left the temple.

When he reached town, the morning sun had reached most of the shops, and a bell from the market square sounded the opening of businesses. The smell of sweetbread and early-summer berries filled the square. Urg took a deep breath and smiled a wide orcish grin before heading straight to the bakery.

The bell on the bakery door chimed as Urg ducked through, tilting his head to clear the frame. Even hunched, he filled the shop. He placed his hands behind his back to avoid knocking over the display case.

Two travelers turned at the sound of him. One flinched. The other fumbled a coin. Urg opened his mouth to greet them…but the kitchen door opened first.

Out came a halfling baker with rose-coloured hair tied with a green ribbon and decorated with a large pink flower–Poppy. She placed a tray of fresh tarts into the case and, upon seeing Urg, beamed like sunlight through stained glass.

"Urg!" she called. "I'll be right with you, sweetie!"

She greeted the travelers warmly and prepared to pack their purchase. Urg stepped aside and peered out the window at the stirring town square while he waited. Vendors bustled. Children skipped past shopfronts.

Then he heard it.

Behind him, one of the travellers mentioned hoping to make it home south "before the Long Day.” Poppy perked up. Her voice was soft as bread fresh from the oven. “Oh, the Long Day! Summer solstice! We used to celebrate it in my hometown!"

Poppy's gleeful giggling brought a big orcish grin to Urg’s face as she continued. "We hung flower crowns from every gatepost. My Nan would bake until her poor legs gave out, and Da would sneak us a pip of summer wine. We all stayed up till the stars came out, chasing fireflies and pretending to be fairies. We called our Long Day Festival a Midsummer Festival."

Urg listened. In his head a wheel was spinning. Midsummer. The Long Day. A celebration of light returning, of life at its fullest. It wasn’t something his clan had marked—at least not with ribbons and pies. But he knew the feeling of it. The aching need to believe in sun after too much shadow.

When the customers left, Urg picked out a fresh tart and coyly asked Poppy if she’d join him for dinner. She grinned and said yes, her eyes twinkling, and for a moment, everything felt a bit lighter.

And just like that, he had a plan.

He didn’t say anything more, but the moment she smiled at him, he knew what he had to do. He would bring Midsummer back. Or something close to it. To lift the town’s spirits. To remind Littleton that the light had returned. But most of all, he wanted to surprise Poppy.

He left the bakery grinning like a fool.

As soon as the bakery door swung shut behind him, he made a beeline for the old widow who ran the seamstress shop just down the lane—she knew every festival, holy day, and harvest rite from a dozen different provinces.

“Midsummer!” he belted out, nearly winded as he barreled through her front door. “What do you remember about it?”

There was a yelp, a thump, and the sharp sound of a pin hitting the floor. A startled customer—an older man holding a torn sleeve—staggered back, clutching his arm where the widow had accidentally jabbed him mid-stitch.

“By the gods, Urg,” the widow snapped, glaring up from behind her workbench, “have you heard of knocking?!”

“Sorry,” the half-orc muttered, stepping back a little too quickly and knocking over a basket of yarn, which promptly exploded across the floor like a woolen firework.

The widow stared at the mess. Then at the half-orc. Then at the ceiling, as if petitioning a higher power for patience.

She sighed, retrieved her pin cushion with great theatrical suffering, and muttered, “Same old Urg.”

The jabbed customer rubbed his arm and shook his head.

She squinted at Urg over her glasses. “So. What’s a war priest want with flower crowns and fairy tales? Trying to impress a certain rosy-cheeked baker, are we?”

Urg’s ears flushed. “No.”

“Mhm.” She bent down and started scooping up yarn. “Well, sit your giant self down and stop looming, and I’ll tell you what I remember.”

Urg perched on a too-small stool, listening intently.

She leaned on the counter and began, “Truth is, this town never had much of a Midsummer tradition. Too cold. Too rocky. Even before the Long Winter, we barely got a proper thaw before autumn came clawing back in.”

She reached absently for a tin of pins, fiddling with the lid. “People talked about it—what they used to do back east or down in the lowlands. Lanterns, dances, fireflies in jars, cider by the keg, flowers everywhere. All sounded lovely. But here?” She shook her head. “Most years, we were still shovelling snow in May.”

Urg looked down at his hands, silent.

“There was one year,” she added, her voice softening. “It was warm. Sky cleared up just enough. Someone strung ribbons in the town centre. Kids tried making daisy chains from lupins. A few held together. We had a little bonfire. Someone brought out a fiddle. Rain came through before dawn, but for a night…” She gave a little shrug. “It felt like something.”

She set the tin aside. “But listen—everywhere did it differently. Some called it the Long Day, or the solstice. Some made it holy. Others made it a party. You’re not going to find a rulebook.”

Urg nodded slowly.

“If you want to build something for this place,” she said, “you’ll have to ask people what they remember. What they hoped for. What they never got.” She raised an eyebrow. “Start there."

Then, just as Urg stood to leave, she raised an eyebrow and added, "And Urg?"

He paused mid-step.

"If you come back asking me to sew you another ceremonial robe big enough to fit your shoulders by tomorrow, I'm retiring."

Urg laughed and thanked her, ducking carefully out the door.

Urg stepped out into the alley behind the shop, ducking under a clothesline and sidestepping a broken crate that smelled faintly of lavender. The bustle of the square was muffled here.

He reached into his haversack and pulled out a short, well-worn piece of copper wire. He straightened it, wrapped it gently around one finger, and raised it to his lips.

He closed his eyes, whispered the words. His hand made the smallest of gestures in the air.

He called his bard companion, Galiel, who was on a hunt, having declared she needed “something to yell at that couldn't talk back.”

“Galiel. It’s Urg. I’m planning a festival. For Midsummer. A surprise for Poppy. What do you remember?”

A flicker of warmth danced through the copper.

Then, clear as ever, Galiel’s voice rang through his mind, sharp and exasperated:

“You? Planning a festival? Gods help us. Here’s my advice, you big sentimental rock pile: if there’s enough alcohol, no one cares what the decorations look like.”

Urg smiled, shaking his head. That was Galiel. Sharp as flint, but warm underneath, if you knew where to look.

She continued, "Urg, don't sweat it. That halfling twerp adores you. Just do what we ALWAYS do on special occasions...break open kegs, light something on fire, and kiss someone you’re not supposed to."

Urg thanked her. “Make it back soon, girls. This will be a night to remember!”

“If it goes well enough,” Galiel winked through the wire, “we won't remember a thing.”

The line went dead.

Urg sighed. "I should probably have asked someone else.”

But honestly? A bonfire, drinks, and dancing didn’t sound half bad.

Getting a few kegs from Barliman shouldn't be an issue. Flowers, though–that would be the hard part.

In the rocky terrain around Littleton, Urg would have to venture into the woods for anything even vaguely festive. He didn't mind the walk. But didn't know the first thing about flower arranging. Or which ones were poisonous.

And he was a tad colourblind.

Nevertheless, off went Urg, humming a little tune he made up as he walked, deep and rumbly like a hungry dog's belly. He stopped folks along the way…shopkeepers, farmhands, even a wide-eyed traveller or two…asking about traditions...or what they wished they'd had.

Urg had no idea what he was doing.

The woods south of town weren’t far, but they got thick fast—ferns brushed at his boots, low branches caught on his sleeves. Still, he walked with purpose.

It was peaceful. Until the flowers fought back.

He spotted the first patch under a tall birch…small violet blooms with white stripes. Looked promising. He crouched, picked a few, and gave them a careful sniff.

And sneezed.

Loudly.

Birds fled. Petals flew.

“All right,” he sniffed, “Not those.”

Next were yellow ones, soft and buttery. He leaned in to pick a few, and a stem brushed against his arm.

It started itching before he’d even straightened up. A red welt was already forming.

“Definitely not those.”

By the time he emerged from the woods, he had several large messy bundles of wildflowers–mostly upright, mostly colourful, and mostly non-toxic. Probably. That was enough.

On the way back into town, he passed Old Man Al’s shack. Against his better judgement, he stopped.

“Morning, Al. I was wondering if you remembered any old Midsummer traditions?”

Old Man Al, the eccentric elder of Littleton perked up immediately, grinning a mostly-toothless grin, “Mister George Boldsoup! You’ve come for the sacred rites!”

Urg smirked. “Again, Al. It's Urg Bloodstew.”

“Bloodstool?” Al scoffed. “Ew. Well, that's what you get from straining too hard.”

Urg nearly choked trying not to laugh.

“Right. Ill…erm…take that into consideration. Anyway, I’m organizing a festival. Midsummer. I thought you might remember something?”

Al's eyes sparkled. “Ah yes, yes, yes. Every solstice, we’d prepare the corned moose.”

“…Corned moose?”

“That’s right. Salt it, brine it, hide it in a hollow log for three days.”

Urg stared. “That sounds unsafe.”

“Only if you forget the garlic pants.”

“…The what?”

“Pants. Made of garlic. To ward off the thunder frogs.”

Urg, gently: “Al, are you sure this was for Midsummer?”

“Oh, Midsummer? I thought you said Mud-Sucker. That’s the moose festival. Held every third Tuesday after a wet harvest. In honour of Sir Bellowguts, the swamp knight.”

Urg blinked. Al smiled like he’d delivered ancient truth.

“This may have been a mistake,” Urg thought, thanking him and backing away carefully.

Urg thundered through Littleton like a one-orc freight train—an orc on a mission:

Elara Songbird of Strumboli’s Musical Instruments agreed to round up her music students for the afternoon. “Nothing too fancy,” Urg said. “Just something folks can tap their feet to. But absolutely no bagpipes. Not again.” Elara gave him a long, amused look, then nodded—either understanding or wisely not asking.

At Gemstone Galleria, Thalia barely looked up from her ledger. “Looking for something small and sparkly?” she asked, already reaching for a velvet box behind the counter. “Isn’t it a little soon?”

“What? No! Decorations, for a Midsummer Festival,” Urg said flushing pink as quartz as he nearly toppled a tray of amethysts.

Thalia laughed. “I'll help with the square. And you can borrow a few crystal lanterns. But just for the afternoon.” Her tone made it clear: damage anything and he'd regret it.

Food, however, was a problem.

The butcher had been picked clean that morning–apparently the town guard had shown up early and left nothing but liver. Undeterred, Urg headed to the Wanderer’s Rest Inn, where Barliman the barkeep was tacking up a sign behind the bar that read: “DON’T LET AL POUR DRINKS!”

Urg explained the situation. Barliman agreed to roll out a few kegs and open up his storeroom–on the condition that Urg personally keep Old Man Al at least ten feet from the cider.

“Fifteen if you want it to last the night,” the barkeep muttered, handing over a ring of keys.

Urg swung by the seamstress’s again—much more gently this time—to pick up some ribbons to string around the lamp posts as makeshift maypoles. Peering over her glasses at the end of her nose, the old widow warned Urg: “If a single corner touches mud, I swear on my thimble…” He promised it wouldn’t. He hoped it wouldn’t. But he had a restoration spell ready, just in case.

The flowers he’d foraged, now sorted into bundles with questionable symmetry, were passed off to local children and anyone with working fingers and a vague sense of colour. “These go on doors. Or poles. Or... just make it look nice.” By the time he reached the fountain, a dozen vaguely wreath-shaped arrangements fluttered in the breeze. Some had butterflies. One had tin cans on strings for windchimes. No one questioned it.

Candles were distributed—some bought, some begged, a few liberated from Thalia’s backstock. He handed them out with simple instructions: “Light this when the sun starts to dip. Hold it up. That’s it.”

By late afternoon, the square had begun to change. Not in grand, sweeping ways—but in the little ones. Ribbons caught the breeze. Candles waited on windowsills. Roasted meat and fresh bread scented the air. Elara’s students tuned instruments, soft notes drifting lazily through the air.

Urg stood at the centre, arms crossed, wildflowers still tucked under one arm, marvelling at what he’d managed.

Then it hit him.

He’d forgotten to invite everyone.

No flyers. No herald. Just a big, messy, half-beautiful gathering–with no one gathered.

He let out a long breath, rubbed his temples, and did the only thing he really knew how to do when all else failed.

He prayed.

He knelt by the fountain, laid a hand on the warm stone, and bowed his head—not for show, not for ritual, but in earnest. The way he always prayed when it was just him.

“Lady Chauntea,” he whispered, voice low and rough. “And Luthic, if you’re listening… I’m trying. I don’t know if I’m doing it right. I don’t know if it’s enough. But I want them to feel hope again. Like something’s coming back. Not just something lost. I want them to smile. I want… her to smile. Please.”

He stayed there, listening to the square settle around him—the rustle of ribbon, the clatter of tin cans, a distant giggle.

Then a breeze rolled through town, tugging at lanterns and skirts. Clouds parted just enough for the late-day sun to catch a thin mist, refracting it into a faint, shimmering rainbow—like a brushstroke of colour across the grey.

A child gasped. A shutter creaked. A door opened.

One by one, people emerged—curious, cautious, drawn by something they couldn’t name.

They didn’t find a sermon. Or a summons.

They found flowers. Music. Candles waiting to be lit. Tables set for no one in particular.

And at the centre: Urg. Still kneeling. Still hoping.

And slowly, the town began to gather.

He was about to stand when a small hand touched his shoulder.

Urg looked up.

Poppy stood behind him, flour still on her apron, ribbon slightly askew. She looked around the square, eyes wide—not with shock, but something softer. Something close to awe.

“Did you… do all this?”

Urg smiled.

She knelt beside him, and reached for his hand.

“You big, ridiculous sweetheart,” she whispered. “It’s perfect.”

Then she leaned in, her voice low.

“There’s one more tradition,” she said. “From my hometown. We’d pick someone at the festival—someone who made the year brighter—and give them a flower. Just one. The best one we had.”

She reached up and pulled the little wildflower from her hair—the same one she’d tucked there that morning in the bakery, pinned just behind her ribbon. A humble thing. Soft pink. A little frayed.

She tucked it gently behind Urg’s ear.

“And we’d say,” she murmured, “thank you for bringing the light back.”

Urg tried to speak. The words caught somewhere in his chest.

So instead, he leaned in and kissed her.

Not a showy kiss. Just a quiet one. Honest. Warm. Full of every unsaid thing between them.

Somewhere behind them stood Galiel and the others who hooped and hollered, s

houting “About time!” loud enough to set off a wave of giggling.

Urg didn’t notice.

He hadn’t gotten the decorations quite right. Or the food. Or the flowers. But in the end, he’d gotten the most beautiful flower of them all–his Poppy–and a new name: Urg Lightbringer.