#peasantblr

It's fucking wonderful

It all began with the blackberry outbreak. Along the shores of the local hamlet, cautious mothers pepper their sons and daughters with disingenuous warnings to beware of fae mischief before setting them out with wicker baskets to fill with the plump fruit. The tangled brambles, a summer staple, seem mysteriously to have doubled and tripled their efforts to overtake the hedgegrowth lining the winding stream known as Lyewater--the phenomenon made all the more puzzling by their quite ordinary progress along the mainstem normally sporting the bulk of the growth. The berry brambles lay in a thick blanket along the edges of the water, the plumpest fruit seated right along the shallows' edge in easy reach of passers by. It takes not long for the locals to catch on and news to spread. Soon every day the water's edge fills with more and more villagers braving thornsticks to take home the season's bounty by the cartload. The sweet fruits gleam in the sun with a beauty to rival obsidian--the lush thickets seeming never to exhaust of their supply. With every foray into the brush they yield their beneficence to the determined seekers. A toll is exacted. Wither fae retribution for the plundering of their wealth, or commonplace luck, sleeves catch afoul of tangles. Skirt are muddied. Linens snagged and torn. A worthy price to pay for the fruit, most would say as they tote their prize home to become jams, pies and tarts. Yet in the following days still further misfortune befalls those who profit from the brambles' bounty. Dark syrups fall from sumptuously laden, still-steaming pastries to mar the skirts and trousers of the witless. Purple stains find their ways onto the paws of children at play, streaked into smallclothes and soiling linens. Strange as the plague of berries, stranger still how the flyers appear just as their troubles arise. They dot every post and wall up and down the stream. In the square where the bakers and merchants peddle their wares. Easily visible. And never far from the lips of the town crier. Special bargains on small tears and snags. Expert stain removal for everything from linens to silks. Act now, as the deals will only last so long. Fancy a dyeing service to spiffy your wardrobe? There's a limited time deal on purples. Only inquire after Tiernan of Shallowbend, so very nearby. Generational launderer. Professional services at a steal. And if the berries seem to grow thickest just at the path down to the stream where the baskets of laundry wait, colorful garments draped about lines like decorous banners...? Well, perhaps the fae have a sense of humor? Who can guess at their machinations?

[[Also note: “Male Wench” in a funny way not a gross about gender way. Trans rights!]]