“The Brocken Bustline Curse” or “The boob fairy wouldn’t let me be”(A Divine Blunder and a Boob Fairy’s Worst Work Yet)

  Areo Olympienne strolled into The Velvet Tankard, Cleavendale’s most well-regarded (and least fmmable) tavern, radiating divine perfection.

  As a demigoddess, daughter of Mammeta, the Goddess of Proportion, and Brassarius, the God of Structural Support, Areo was a walking embodiment of bance.

  Her stride? Fwlessly even.

  Her posture? Immacute.

  Her bosom? Divine in its symmetrical splendor.

  She took a seat at the bar, her godly sight allowing her to notice something others could not—a tiny, excitable figure zipping between patrons’ bustlines like a hummingbird hopped up on enchanted espresso.

  It was Balconette, a boob fairy notorious for taking offense at the slightest hint of boob-reted criticism.

  Areo smirked, intrigued. "A boob fairy, huh? You must be busy in a pce like this."

  Balconette turned mid-flight, perking up at the acknowledgment. "Oh, you can SEE me? A demigoddess, huh? Nice symmetry, by the way. Ever considered going up a cup size?"

  Areo chuckled. "Fttering, but I don’t make rash adjustments."

  Balconette grinned, flitting down to perch on Areo’s shoulder. "You’d be surprised how many women let me tweak them. ‘Oh, just a little perkier!’ ‘Maybe a touch more fullness!’ Next thing you know, BOOM! Double-D disaster."

  They shared a ugh, sipping their drinks. For a boob fairy and a goddess of symmetry, they were getting along surprisingly well.The had a pleasant exchange about supportive spells, divine architecture, and the superiority of underwire. It was all going well until Areo, in a moment of innocent observation, gnced at a barmaid across the room and commented:

  Until it happened.

  "That corset isn’t doing her any favors."

  To Areo, this was an innocent comment about tailoring.

  To Balconette? It was an act of war.

  The fairy’s wings froze mid-fp. Her expression darkened.

  "So you're saying her NATURAL CHEST ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH?!"

  Areo blinked. "What? No, I just meant—"

  Too te.

  Balconette’s hands fred with pink magic. "Then let’s see how YOU like a taste of boob-based injustice!"

  A shimmering glow enveloped Areo’s chest, and suddenly—POOF!

  Her once-perfectly proportioned breasts vanished.

  There was a shriek from the other side of the tavern.

  A barmaid, previously modestly endowed, suddenly doubled in size.

  Areo looked down, then across the room. “Oh no.”

  A shimmering glow enveloped Areo’s chest, and suddenly—POOF!

  Her once-perfectly proportioned breasts vanished.

  A gasp echoed across the bar as, on the other side of the room, a completely unreted wench suddenly EXPLODED in cup size, going from modest to MILK MAID in an instant.

  A stunned silence.

  Then, from the newly overendowed bar wench:

  "What in the blessed bosom of Brassarius?!"

  The Chain ReactionThe barmaid, completely thrown off bance, stumbled forward into a passing bard, her enhanced chest colliding with the poor minstrel’s back.

  With a fsh of pink light, the mass transferred again.

  The bard, now booming with boobage, yelped in confusion, spun around, and collided with a noblewoman, passing the enhancement onward.

  Within minutes, Cleavendale’s first recorded case of spontaneous breast migration was in full effect.

  A baker leaned too close to a barmaid—BAM, upgraded.

  A milkmaid patted a friend’s shoulder—POOF, enhanced.

  A tavern wench slipped on ale, fell into a noblewoman, and doubled her cleavage instantly.

  Each new recipient grew ever more busty, passing the boob energy forward like an accidental game of magical tag.

  Areo, ft as a washboard, tried to catch up.

  "STOP! EVERYONE JUST—STOP TOUCHING EACH OTHER!"

  She lunged forward—only to accidentally brush against a passing serving girl, restarting the curse yet again.

  Balconette?

  She was ughing her tiny wings off.

  "Okay, I gotta admit, this is even better than I pnned."

  Solutions (That Made It Worse)Several concerned citizens tried to help.

  A cleric attempted to exorcise the enchantment by clutching her chest and praying with intensity. The magic backfired, now only one of her breasts swelled to impressive size, while the other fttened like a pressed pancake.

  An amateur alchemist tried to “bance” the spell using a potion of equalization. He tossed it in the air. It exploded.

  Now, everyone caught in the cloud had asymmetrical boobs.

  Panic escated. Spills increased. The inn's floorboards creaked under the pressure.

  By now, Areo was in full crisis mode.

  She grabbed Balconette, who had been sipping mead and watching the madness unfold with delight.

  "FIX IT."

  The fairy hiccupped.

  "Uh… right. Soooo… funny story? I kiiind of forgot the reversal spell."

  Areo deadpanned.

  "You what."

  "But! S’ok, I think if we can get everyone to do a synchronized group hug, it’ll force the energy to stabilize!"

  “Did you just make that up?” Areo asked.

  Thus began the rgest coordinated hug effort in Cleavendale history.

  With gritted teeth and overwhelming awkwardness, every afflicted woman stood in a massive circle, carefully aligning themselves.

  At Areo’s command, they embraced simultaneously.

  A massive pink pulse erupted, the energy colpsing inward, reabsorbing into Areo’s divine symmetry. The curse itself burst into pink sparkles and vanished.

  It worked.

  … Almost.

  Dozens of women locked arms, corsets creaking, faces red, one bard trying to make it a harmony—and with a unified squish, the curse burst into pink sparkles and vanished.

  AftermathEveryone’s chest returned to normal. Almost everyone.

  One barmaid, who had somehow never bumped anyone and not been part of the hug, still held the stored boob energy. Her shirt groaned. Her spine tilted. Her eyes widened.

  She looked down. Then smirked. “Well. Tips are about to skyrocket.”

  Balconette buzzed out the front door, still drunk on chaos, still glowing with residual magic. “This was fun. I should get offended more often!”

  Areo, now restored to her divine bance, gred after her.

  “I am never… commenting on a corset again.”

  Epilogue: Cleavendale Never ForgetsTo this day, the event is commemorated as:

  The Great Bustline Migration of Cleavendale

  Tavern songs are sung about it. Tailors reference it in every client consultation. And Balconette?

  She’s somewhere out there. Offending logic. Warping physics. Probably ruining someone’s bra fitting with the phrase, “Oh, you think that’s fttering?”

  And somewhere, a tavern barmaid reclines in her reinforced chair, counting her tips.