The Kingdom of Axillia

The throbbing ache in your head finally subsides, replaced by a sense of profound dislocation. You push yourself up from a comfortable-looking bench to find you're 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 you're still in your jeans and long-sleeved shirt.

While the men here wear a variety of tunics and jackets, it's the women who immediately draw your eye. Every single one, from the young girls chasing birds to the aristocratic ladies gossiping on a nearby balcony, is wearing a sleeveless dress or tunic. They move with an easy confidence, their arms swinging freely.

Your attention is drawn to a nearby stall where 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 cleansing 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 her arm, displaying a flawless, powdered armpit. The merchant, taking on the air of a true connoisseur, leans in and takes a short, appreciative sniff.

"Ah," he breathes out, his eyes lighting up. "A truly exquisite aroma. A vibrant, earthy note with a hint of... sweetgrass? Superb. My product is not worthy." He bows deeply, completely sincere.

The woman laughs, a sound like silver bells. "Flatterer." It's then that her sharp, intelligent eyes land on you. Her smile doesn't fade, but her eyebrows raise with curiosity. She takes in your sleeved shirt, your confused expression, and your 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 your head finally subsides, replaced by a sense of profound dislocation. You push yourself up from a comfortable-looking bench to find you're 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 you're still in your soft, gray long-sleeved sweater and comfortable jeans.

While the men here wear a variety of tunics and jackets, it's the women who immediately draw your eye. Every single one is wearing a sleeveless dress or tunic, moving with an easy confidence.

Your attention is drawn to a nearby stall where 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 cleansing 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 her arm, displaying a flawless, powdered armpit. The merchant, taking on the air of a true connoisseur, leans in and takes a short, appreciative sniff.

"Ah," he breathes out, his eyes lighting up. "A truly exquisite aroma. Superb." He bows deeply, completely sincere.

The woman laughs, a sound like silver bells. "Flatterer." It's then that her sharp, intelligent eyes land on you. 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 you. "Look there, Borin. That poor thing."

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

Lady Elara approaches you, her movements full of the grace you lack. She stops before you, 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 your covered arms with profound sympathy, as if you were suffering from a terrible deformity.

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