Chapter Text
Commander Cullen‘s slicked-back curls give off a hint of pomade mingled with a light note of lavender from his hair soap.
The timid floral bouquet transitions into earthy aromas of fur, leather and the outdoors- grass, rain and a whisper of sweat.
Once the armour is off the few people who get to see him without will notice clean, almost sweet sandalwood and perhaps a distant touch of vanilla, particularly from his neck and chest.
When his lips glisten just a little in the candle light and his breath smells sticky-sweet you’ll know he’s treated himself to a honey roll, possibly accompanied by a cup of hot cocoa.
If he hasn’t been handling steel and polish, his surprisingly soft hands will bear the scent of Antivan almond from the lotion he affords for himself.
King Alistair’s skin recalls the outdoors far less than it used to. Nowadays one has to come a little closer to detect him under the exquisite assortment of pricey care products.
His head of ginger is usually enveloped in a layer of wheatgerm from the oil he massages into his scalp. The smell tends to be stronger whenever he decides to grow his hair out (mostly to annoy any Orlesian visitors and much to Advisor Eamon’s misery).
Were one’s nose to traverse down his neck, it would detect delicate traces of orange blossom and cinnamon- though the latter could stem from indulgence in his favourite pastries.
Past his shoulders and further down his chest citrus scents mix with musk to form a headier concoction, particularly if the day was spent in a plush uniform.
The royal hands merely bear the pure smell of skin as he prefers an odourless ointment.
His Majesty’s full lips, however, carry the faintest note of rose water, a small rub of which keeps the skin soft and supple.