“Pardonne-moi, monsieur ou madame… could you schpare schome cake?”

The woman from Berle et Dascu, the twin confectionery territories, had an obsession with sugar, as most of her countrymen and women did. This one had a particular affinity for anything blueberry- blueberry jam, blueberry pie, and especially blueberry tarts and pastries.

However, after several conflicts within the Berle-Dascu border and the mutual agreement of a demilitarized zone, Berleans (who mainly grew the berries for the pastries) were left nearly unable to enjoy the baked goods they once loved, while Dascuans (who produced all the wheat, flour and the like) could only enjoy tasteless bread without the enhancements of Berlean fruits and jellies.

This brings us to this small caravan of what would be considered semi-wealthy elites- people who could stand to purchase the wildly inflated products from the other side, but would be digging into their generational wealth in the process.

The woman adjusts her parasol, fanning herself with dainty gloved hands. Sweat drips down her ample curves as she spritzes herself with blueberry-scented perfume. Oh, how she would love to taste the tart tang of a delicious frozen blueberry smoothie…

“Un vendeur stupide tried to schell me elderberriesch… but I know the differensche, oui!”

She did know the difference- and she used her powerful poisons and corrosive chemicals derived from acids found in blueberries to eliminate any sort of petty salesman who thought they could get the up on her. Not the current head of the Confiture de Gateau family (who was currently looking for a husband or wife… either was fine), non!

“Oh, Mon Dieu! When isch the nexcht rescht schtop!?”

The lisp-like quality to her speech is due to the sticky ring of blueberry jam around her mouth. Quite unbecoming of a lady, but given the still-pristine quality of her white sundress, she seems to have it under control.