Within a week, the kingdom of Ardore became the most sensibly-dressed nation in history. Silk stockings were burned in bonfires. Lace was torn from collars and repurposed as fishing nets. The milliners, those architects of whimsy, closed up shop and fled to the mountains.
Bartholomew Pence dropped his shears. They clattered on the marble floor. frivolousdressorder
Lord Pence stared, his shears trembling in his hand. “That... that spiral has no practical application!” Within a week, the kingdom of Ardore became
The only one who didn’t dance was Bartholomew Pence. He sat on the palace steps, wearing his grey tunic, looking at his empty hands. He had spent so long cutting the frivolity out of others, he had forgotten how to put any into himself. The milliners, those architects of whimsy, closed up
The law was enforced by the Lord Chancellor of Modesty, a man named Bartholomew Pence whose own wardrobe consisted of a single, grey woolen tunic. He patrolled the cobblestone streets with a pair of iron shears, snipping any ruffle, bow, or unnecessary button he deemed "emotionally excessive."
The next day, she wore a dress made entirely of interlocking felt rectangles. “Platonic solids, my lord. The very bedrock of reality.” He nodded, unable to argue with bedrock.
“What’s that for?” he mumbled.