One thing Rafe could not become accustomed to was the overwhelming scent of being human. He loved the visual feast of being mortal, and his keen awareness of sensation was a constant delight. He enjoyed the sounds of earthly life and the tastes of the world were a constant voyage of discovery. He liked the feel of his body flexing—even though it was far less powerful than it had been previously, he was more aware of it.
But Rafe found scent distracting and disturbing. He particularly disliked when he himself emanated scent.
And now, now that he had remembered his previous existence, its purity and cleanliness, he felt filthy. His scent was a pungent reminder of what he had sacrificed—and of the price of failure. He smelled mortality in his own perspiration, mortality and finality and dea
