Bookmark: How's Karyn doing?

Colors and shapes swirled around the opulent room with such bewildering velocity that Karyn was not quite sure as to how she hadn’t yet passed out from nausea. This was not a tailor shop; it was a birdcage, the enchanted clothes blurring into what looked liked tropical animals flying in dizzying circles. This entire experience had been less than enjoyable for Karyn. She wasn’t usually against shopping, hell, she even thought it could be _fun_… But when “Aria”, or “Erina,” or whatever her name was, dragged Karyn to a different dressing room than where Jon had been led to, showing off… Well, Karyn could barely put it into words. It was a gown, probably, composed of intricate layers of details and… pictures? Karen couldn’t tell. The stupid thing seemed to shift and fluctuate whenever she focused on any one point. It was surreal, sure, but that’s all it had going for it. Somehow, the author managed to make something both “obnoxiously big” (Karyn wasn’t even sure how her weird Elf-body was supposed to support all that fabric) and sexy—Karyn saw the built-in corset, and she was __not__ gonna wear it. She had enough back problems as is, thank you. _Was this karma for pushing Jon into playing dress up?_ The good news: Karyn could voice her disdain. _I am not letting that thing touch me._ The bad news? It was a trap. “I am the __High Queen of Tyr__. You expect me to wear _this_ to an official summit?” To Karyn’s surprise, the dress maker didn’t cower away in fear, nor apologize, nor beg for mercy, or really what any other non-important character would have done up to this point. No, she did something quite a bit more terrifying: she smirked a sly, complacent smirk. As if to say that she was accepting the queen’s challenge. “But of course, Your Majesty—” Oreo had a stereotypical French accent, Karyn wasn’t sure how, considering she was a high elf in the high elf capital, in a setting where France __didn’t exist__—“I apologize for my… negligence. I will make you ze perfect outfits in but a few moments.” A tornado. Karyn could barely register what was happening—one moment, everything was fine; Erina was striking some pose, one hand on her hip, the other sticking straight outwards. But then she went and snapped her fingers, and a brilliant flash of purple light eclipsed the room. Karen first noticed the clothes; hundreds of fabrics were swirling around the room, like frenzied birds caught in a storm. Then she noticed the mirror, where the gauche dress had been moments prior. Seraphina was naked, hair let down and everything, looking absolutely… false? It would be less than a few seconds before Karyn’s attention would be flung elsewhere, but in this briefest of instances, she noticed just how impossible this body was. No body hair, like, anywhere. In the past, Karyn had waxed, shaved, all that stuff… But this was beyond that. As if hair just didn’t grow from Seraphina's body. And Seraphina's body… There was no cellulite. How, in God’s name, does an adult body __shaped like this__ appear so unwrinkled? Then there was the hair. Hair doesn’t get this long without damage. Period. This was a medieval fantasy world, no less, so how could five feet of the damn stuff look so full and well-maintained? And the boobs. Those stupid, giant _things_ were straight up _floating!_ How!? __How!?__ Karyn had one last thought, just before being bombarded with an array of free-flying clothes that would decorate her magazine-cutout of a body like some doll in a dress up game. ___Oh lord. These are NOT boobs.___