It was a very bad idea to try and invent time travel running on 2 hours of sleep. But, you did it anyway, and compacted it all into a small wrist-sized bracelet. 

And as a consequence, you were sent hurtling back through space and time - you had made a fail safe, of course - time travel was dangerous, after all. Any mortal danger that would kill you would instead send you to a new time period. Of course, that required power - but you could easily power a jump of 100 years by converting height into energy via the complicated science of matter reduction!
You could simply undo the size loss when you got back to your lab -  there was plenty of power there.

Except, there was just one problem. The time bracelet was stuck, and you couldn’t get it to return to your home time. And judging by the rough dirt roads, there was going to be very little power to get you back to normal size. 

Text slowly scrolled across the screen, reading “1380 - Middle Ages, England.” You had managed to land yourself in the dark ages, and you were about 3 inches tall, if that. You smack your hand against your forehead.

Before you could formulate a plan, however, the dirt around you starts to shake and jump - a terribly huge tremor rattling your bones. You feel the hairs on the end of your neck stand up - you were in the middle of a dirt path, and someone was coming down it. You spin to look at the source of the earthquake, and your eyes have to strain to take all of the figure in.

It was nothing more than a young peasant girl - her hair was fair, her eyes green, and freckles were mixed in with a healthy coating of dirt from the hygiene of the time and the hard labor that she no doubt did every day. The leather of her boots creaked softly as she walked, carrying a bushel of what looked to be corn?

The thudding steps grow closer, and you almost were knocked on your ass by the sheer act of a young peasant farm girl doing nothing more than ordinary walking. But currently, she was your only means of salvation.

You could feel the heat from her body radiating through the thin leather of her well-worn boots as she stepped closer, and you had to act quickly - you narrowly avoided being smeared into the dirt as she took another step, grabbing onto a frayed piece of cloth that served a lace for her boots. Your tiny fingers dig into the muddy material, and manage to get a grip before she takes another step, and you are taken on the ride of a lifetime, whipped about like a stray piece of grass clinging to her bootlace. 

The sheer g-force of the simple action of the fair-haired girl taking a single step made your eyes water, wind whipping your hair back, ears ringing from the rapid movement. You manage to grab ahold of the rough hewn leather of her boot, feeling the warmth radiate from inside. You take a moment to catch your breath before it hits you - an unmistakable, powerful, and STRONG scent.

Of course, she was a hardworking farm girl, and you were pressed nose-first against her only pair of shoes. You felt your eyes water, a thick, cheesy miasma dominating your senses almost instantly. You cough weakly, but manage to keep your wits about you enough to climb a little further up the boot.

The thudding steps shake your grip, and send little bits of dirt flying up at you - you’re grateful that you were able to transport your clothes, as the tiny pebbles sting your back.

The girl’s name was Lyra, but you’d never get to know it - she was freshly 18, and currently the only one in her family capable of working the fields after her siblings and father had fallen ill. She had been on her feet for 8 hours that day, and her socks had long since worn away.

You manage to claw your way to the cuff of her boot, and as you tug yourself up, hoping to tap on her calf for attention - you are hit full on in the face with a gust of bitter, cloying air from the dankest depths of the girl’s footwear, and you almost pass out then and there.

Another step, and you tumble over the thick leather wall, sliding between the slick skin of her foot and the hot, musky leather. You hear an annoyed little grunt from above, and an old, warped dialect of English booms down.

“Somethende in mīn boot? Ich'īm4;ple hauen latēm4;r…”

The sounds of the outside world are quickly drowned out by the thudding steps of the young peasant and the creaking of her boots mixing with the sound of rubbing leather on bare skin. The air inside here was positively muggy - it was as if you had been thrust into a sauna inside a tropical forest. Your hands slip uselessly on the slick leather, the perspiration making it so your struggles only sent you deeper into her boot with every motion.

The insole below her fair foot was long since worn away, the sole a hard bit of leather that bore a years-old imprint of her foot in her now too-tight boots. There was no chance in hell you were going to make it out of here without at least permanently damaging your sense of smell. Your fingers slide uselessly on the slick surface of the leather, unable to find purchase as your nose and eyes burn. The sheer heat radiating from the depths of Lyra’s boot was almost like being in front of an open oven door, and it was getting worse and worse with every centimeter you slid down. Her sweat soaked through your clothes, and matted your hair to your head.

You see the dim glow of the bracelet reflecting off the sheen of sweat on the pale girl’s dirty ankle, and she takes another massive, booming step.

You are thrown from your tenuous perch down to the insole below.