((better)) | Frivolousdressorder

That night, the kingdom celebrated. The milliners came down from the mountains. The lace was untangled from the fishing nets. And the Queen, in a dress of emerald velvet that rustled like a forest in a storm, danced until dawn.

Princess Celia, still wearing her Pi dress, sat down beside him. She unpinned one of the infinite blue ribbons and tied it around his wrist. It was a small, irrational, completely unnecessary gesture. frivolousdressorder

Lord Pence stared, his shears trembling in his hand. “That... that spiral has no practical application!” That night, the kingdom celebrated

“Originality is the mother of frivolity, Your Majesty,” he replied, polishing his shears. “And frivolity is the father of... poor time management.” And the Queen, in a dress of emerald

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 Queen watched from her itchy brown sack. For the first time in weeks, she smiled. The dress was absurd. It was magnificent. It was a beautiful, silent rebellion against the grey.

The only one who seemed unbothered was the Queen’s younger sister, Princess Celia. Celia had always been considered a little strange. She preferred geometry to gossip and algebra to alchemy. And now, with all the frivolous dressers in hiding, she flourished.