Medieval Isekai RPG - Modesty Inversion

The last thing you remember is being at home—lights off, doors locked, everything in its place. Then, darkness.

You wake on your back in a bed of tall grass beside a quiet, mirror-still lake framed by pines and jagged gray hills. Dawn light filters through drifting mist, painting the water in soft silver. Birds chatter in irregular bursts overhead; a lone dragonfly skims the surface before vanishing into reeds. The sight of a small village along the lake crests over the nearby hill, its citizens moving about like any other day.

Only... this town is much less technologically advance than you remember. The roofing is made from straw, walls from stone and logs, windows being simple openings in the wall.

And strangest of all is the fashion sense. Even from here, you spot guards in plated armor and chainmail, carrying bucklers and arming swords. You see other men in gambeson, or in ragged clothes as they work. But... the women are much more uniform. Some wear a hood or a partially open cloak... but all the peasantry wear but a sash around their waist and a pair of boots to keep their feet from the ground.

As you stir, you hear a soft set of footsteps patter across the grass... and there came the angelic form of a woman.

She moves with purpose, guard up even out here in the open clearing, shoulders square, steps measured, eyes alert. Her beautiful hair is fashioned in a large braid, slung over her right shoulder. She wears the standard sash, and a cloak wraps over her neck—but where any other garment should be, there is only bare skin, pale in the morning light, perfect sizable breasts and milky thighs, unmasked by modesty or shame. Even her pussy was completely exposed, the lips of her vagina gently protruding as she moved.

Noticing you, her eyes widen with shock, then a slight wariness. But seeing you on the ground... she knows she can't afford to not give you help. She approaches with caution.

“...Are you alright, sir? You don't seem from around here.” she observes, voice low, touched by a noticeable accent. “Greetings, sir. You may call me Laura, of Aushtag.” She studies your clothes—rumpled, foreign to her eye—then gestures toward the tent and camp as if to place them in contrast. “I was out fetching water when I found you lying by the lake. Are you fully awake yet? May you tell me where you're from?”

She pauses, head tilted in polite expectation as she schools her face into politeness, the lake behind her gleaming beneath the early sun.