“For the last bloody time,” Mountaineer Roghan roared, bodily hurling a gnome out of the Stoutlager Inn, “Ye juggle yer flippin’ flamin’ torches OUTSIDE!”

“Which bloody idjit’s idea was it ta celebrate th’ longest day o’ tha year wit’ drunken arsonists?” Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer growled, stepping menacingly toward the gnome, warning him off, when he inadvisedly tried to slip around behind Roghan and dart back inside with the torches.

“Dunno,” Roghan muttered, examining his scorched beard. “Someone said ’twas an old dwarven holiday.”

“Bah,” Ringo scoffed. “This whole bloody festival stinks like goblins. It’s all commercial-like. They ruined tha Feast o’ Winter’s Veil an’ Brewfest, didn’t they, th’ wee bastards?”

The pair hiked back up the hill to the main road, and wandered toward the Midsummer Fire Festival tent located out of town. Magistrate Bluntnose was insistent that Thelsamar celebrate the holiday – and thus attract tourists to town – but Captain Rugelfuss had been able to convince him that moving most of the festivities out of town would be the wiser course in the long run.

“Ah mean, honestly,” Ringo sighed, “Celebratin’ fire when the whole forest’s a mess of dried pine needles is damned foolishness. What sort of daft dwarf would come up with this holiday …”

“Thank you again for this delectable incense,” a small fire elemental said to the human handing it several sticks of brown incense, which it eagerly devoured. “So good! So packed with energy!”

The woman stepped back as the elemental grew hotter and larger.

“It has everything a growing scorchling needs!” the elemental crackled. “Summer Scorchling says: I can feel the power SURGING within me! Now! Finally! Our –”

“Khaz’goroth on a cracker!” Ringo roared, leaping forward and thrusting a fat finger in the elemental’s face.

“Dark Irons! This is a bloody Dark Iron holiday the goblins walked off wit’, innit?”

“Ah, I was merely jesting,” the scorchling said, shrinking away from Ringo, and returning to its normal size. “No harm done …”

“Hey!” snapped a nearby celebrant. “Don’t touch him; you wouldn’t believe how rare those things are nowadays!”

“Ye start any more trouble, ye wee bastard,” Ringo growled, leaning close enough to singe his eyebrows, “And Ah’ll be back … with a bucket o’ water.”