Heavy on the dust and smoke, these fragrances are for big damn heroes just looking for a little peace of mind and a patch of sky to call their own.
Torn, marked-up pages. Spices and rosemary. Bloodied kneecaps. A shepherd with his irreverent flock. Strong coffee and a sensible smile. The faintest whiff of hellfire.
Fresh strawberries and sunshine. A teddy bear patch and an indomitable spirit. Hands, knees, and elbows covered in oil and engine grease. Fancy chocolates and a fluffy pink dress.
A Hawaiian shirt so loud you can smell the pineapples. Splashes of engine grease and coffee left too long by the pilot’s chair. A moon where the principle form of recreation is juggling geese. A director’s sudden yet inevitable betrayal.
A leather vest ready for action. Beeswax, tonka bean, and Tahitian vanilla. Quiet moments of comfort between battles. An old boot-string from a lost war turned into a symbol of undying love.
Temple incense drifting over a lotus on still, deep waters. A basket of bergamots and plums. Ritual, order, and careful routine, defended by rapier wit. Secrets in a carved cedarwood box.
Strong cigars. Iron and steel, gunpowder and sweat. A statue made of mud. Vitality. Rugged manliness asserting itself under a girl’s name and a homemade knit hat.
Coffee, cowhide, and a brown leather duster. Smoke curling from the end of a Model B Frontier Defender. Dirt and hay and the smell of the open sky, even after months aboard the ship.
A splash of Victorian cologne. Meticulously scrubbed hands with antiseptic on the fingertips. A medical encyclopedia, roughly worn from travel. Memories of a family heirloom tea set and a polished upright piano.
A clay mug of milk sweetened with nutmeg. The pitter-patter of tiny feet in huge combat boots. A forgotten planet filled with lost souls. Fresh berries gathered from the woods. A dancer drenched in coppery blood.
Worn rungs on steel ladders. Christmas lights strung around a bunk hatch. Soup heating in a well-loved kitchen with hand-painted flowers on the walls. Oil, rust, and the constant thrum of the engine. Traces of everyone who’s called this place home.