[It is in the afternoon of their second day in town, when the sun sits high over the horizon and the daily traffic that treads the roads has beaten a lingering cloud of dust into the air, that Achilles explores the sundry shops that line the main thoroughfare. Being that he is the son of a worthy king he has never before had any need to venture to market, and so the array of goods displayed upon shelves in the dim and cramped stores is rather a curiosity to him. He finds little to his liking in the munitions shop, since for all his wisdom in warfare the firearms that the locals so favor are utterly foreign to him, but the timepieces that tick from every corner of the clock maker's shop capture his awe for their novelty and fine craftsmanship.

From the moment he strides into the tailor's shop, the seamstress is upon him like a fly fluttering over ripened fruit. She insists that his ensemble of tunic and cloak is no way for a man to dress, and swiftly do her words darken his countenance.]

What is this you are saying? Such is how the long-haired Achaeans have clad themselves for many a generation of worthy men. Can you not see how finely woven is this tunic? Or have you no skill at all in weaving, as is a woman's art?

[Presently should someone interfere, for rarely is it a good idea to allow Achilles to speak to anyone when stirs his ire.]