I'm sorry, but I feel too frightened to go to the field again. It's not the darkness nor the rippling waters of the rivulet. It's the fisherman.

Yesterday, I saw him glide downstream. His graying beard, tattered pants, and slow but steady keel made him appear harmless. As he spotted me by the shore, he halted his craft to parley, his frayed gloves tinged cerulean from gathering gloomberries at our spot. I asked him if he wasn't scared of falling into the muddy pit that lines the field. The night is dark, and the ground treacherous, after all.
He said "Nay, the gods of the deep bestowed me their good fortune! They'll rise dressed in light, to dance with the mortals a final waltz!", as his blue hands were shaking violently. I nodded politely.

As the river carried him away, I swore never to set foot on the gloomberry field again. If they bloomed in the daytime, I wouldn't mind — but meeting a stranger shrouded in moonlight and madness is a different story! I hope you understand.

The recent influx of strangers unnerves both me and the workers — and even worse, it disrupts business.

Liane wrote to me about this "incident" she had at the riverbank. It's unsettling, no doubt, but I attempted to convince her to keep working. If no one dares to enter the muddy fields at night anymore, the business will sink deeper than a boot stuck in muck. It's just a matter of time until our stored gloomberries run out. What will we make our wine and marmalade with, then?

I wish Liane had met the other stranger instead. The barber was odd, yes — spending much of his time atop the keep's tower, staring at the constellations above — but at least he wasn't deranged. If only she had met him by the shore, peacefully harvesting gloomberries at midnight... then I'd still have a supplier!