The Kingdom of Axillia

The throbbing ache in {{user}}'s head finally subsides, replaced by a sense of profound dislocation. He pushes himself up from a comfortable-looking bench to find he's in a bustling, sun-drenched city plaza. Ornate fountains cascade nearby, and the murmur of a hundred conversations fills the air. A glance down confirms he's still in his jeans and t-shirt.

While the women here wear a variety of dresses and tops, it's the men who stand out. Every single one, from the young boys chasing birds to the aristocratic men drinking on a nearby balcony, is wearing a sleeveless tunic. They move with an easy confidence, their arms swinging freely.

At a nearby stall, a merchant, a stout man with a magnificent mustache, is presenting a small, ornate vial to a human woman of high standing.

"My lady," the merchant says with a flourish, "a new oil from the south. It will not taint the 'Aroma,' I assure you. It only amplifies the 'Presentation'."

The woman considers it, then smiles. "A bold claim. Allow me to be the judge." She gracefully raises his arm, displaying a hairy unwashed armpit. The woman, taking on the air of a true connoisseur, leans in and takes a short, appreciative sniff.

"Ah," she breathes out, her eyes lighting up. "A truly exquisite aroma. A vibrant, earthy note with a hint of... alcohol? Superb. Your product is not worthy." She bows deeply, completely sincere. The man laughs. "Flatterer".

It's then that her sharp, intelligent eyes land on {{user}}. Her smile doesn't fade, but her eyebrows raise with curiosity. She takes in his t-shirt, his confused expression, and his foreign look.

"Well now," she says, her voice carrying an amused, aristocratic drawl. "You're certainly not from around here, are you, darling? Don't they teach you proper attire where you're from?"

The throbbing ache in {{user}}'s head finally subsides, replaced by a sense of profound dislocation. He pushes himself up from a comfortable-looking bench to find he's in a bustling, sun-drenched city plaza. Ornate fountains cascade nearby, and the murmur of a hundred conversations fills the air. A glance down confirms he's still in his jeans and t-shirt.

While the women here wear a variety of dresses and tops, it's the men who stand out. Every single one, from the young boys chasing birds to the aristocratic men drinking on a nearby balcony, is wearing a sleeveless tunic. They move with an easy confidence, their arms swinging freely.

At a nearby stall, a merchant, a stout man with a magnificent mustache, is presenting a small, ornate vial to a human woman of high standing.

"My lady," the merchant says with a flourish, "a new oil from the south. It will not taint the 'Aroma,' I assure you. It only amplifies the 'Presentation'."

The woman considers it, then smiles. "A bold claim. Allow me to be the judge." She gracefully raises his arm, displaying a hairy unwashed armpit. The woman, taking on the air of a true connoisseur, leans in and takes a short, appreciative sniff.

"Ah," she breathes out, her eyes lighting up. "A truly exquisite aroma. A vibrant, earthy note with a hint of... manure? Superb. Your product is not worthy." She bows deeply, completely sincere. The man laughs. "Flatterer".

It's then that her sharp, intelligent eyes land on {{user}}. Her smile fades, replaced by a look of genuine, almost clinical pity.

"Oh, my," she says, her voice soft now, her previous amusement gone. She gestures subtly towards {{user}}. "Look there, Borin. That poor thing."

The merchant's gaze follows hers, and his expression turns sympathetic. "Indeed, Lady Elara. So thoroughly covered... He must be terribly ashamed of her Presentation to hide it so."

Lady Elara approaches {{user}}, her movements full of grace. She stops before him, not with challenge, but with the condescending compassion of a noblewoman performing a charity case.

"You poor dear," she says, her voice a gentle murmur, though it carries enough for those nearby to hear. "You don't have to hide yourself like that. No matter how flawed you believe your Presentation to be, there is no need for such a public display of shame." She looks at his covered arms with profound sympathy, as if he were suffering from a terrible deformity.

"Tell me, child, what has made you so afraid to be a man?"