Rain farmers

As ma grandpappy used to say, "three thousand years ago when god was just a boy," back before the war that cut Strasia near in half, the miners way up the mountains used to cut brillic for the Selis festival. It grows as far as the eye can see on the foothills of the Allerane, and they used to cut the bushes down like wheat with giant scythes. I s'pose they could do that if it was growing the way they said it was, an endless sea of yellow--a different kind of gold mine. If I could've seen that.
Be nice if we could still harvest it off the slopes and cart it back to Strasia, but them damn Roushon decided they liked the brillic better; they like it for their dyes and their teas and their perfume bugs. Claim it makes the bugs make better perfume. Gods know how, the flowers stink worse than a dead fish when they're fresh. Takes a master dryer to take that smell off, I can tell ya, and I do it for a living. 
Well once the Seven Armies pushed what was left of the empire behind Carmel's Belt and made our southern mountains the northern mountains, the old king discovered it was gonna be awful difficult celebratin' Selis without the miles and miles of brillic back in the Allerane. Sure, he tried harvestin' it from the Belt, but it didn't like it down here that much. My grandpappy's great-great-great-grandpappy was one of the first farmers to be commissioned to grow brillic and only brillic. First he said no thank you but then they said how much they'd pay him for it and he was pretty happy to grow it after that. 
Not that it's easy stuff to grow, unlike what those hoity toity upmarket frilly flouncy namby pambies would have you believe. Just cause they chose to make their lifes work carvin' the toughest wood in Aereltia, or fiddlin' with tiny trinkets, or hand-stitchin' ball gowns for the Queen, and chargin' head and tail for it, doesn't make growin' the world's stinkiest flower any easier. Sure, we charge head and tail for our products too, but between growin', pickin', dryin', keepin' the plants from dyin' and puttin' up with the smell, I'd say it's just as worth the price as a statue of a fish eatin' a tree. And they call rain farmin' a racket.   
They like to call us goldfingers too, due to the way the flowers stain your hands somethin' horrible during pickin' time, and for how much the temples will pay for the "summer rain," as they like to call it. It's tradition to drop huge piles of the flowers from nets above the temple courts on the festival crowds below, ironically celebratiin' that the incessant ocean rains have given up for a month or two. Course, brillic only flowers during those months, so we pull some back-breakin' hours pickin' and dryin' the stinkers. Even though ya hardly see ya family for two months cause you're all runnin' around like ya asses are on fire, in the end it feels pretty worth it when ya get handed a stack of gold that'll keep ya going till next year pickin' time.