FREYA
The staging lot is loud at dusk.
Ten vans. Fourteen trucks. Multiple dozen warriors moving in and out of the wash of the parked headlights with their gear on and their faces set. The cold has come in harder than last patrol, the breath of the men is in the air in small white plumes and the smell of cold gravel and gun oil and engine smoke is layered with the small bright wrongness of the cologne I have soaked the high collar of my coat in.
I rubbed a scent concealer into the hollow of my throat before I dressed. A small drop behind each ear. The pup's earthy scent will keep coming through underneath, the way a green branch will keep coming through smoke, but the cover will buy me a few hours, and a few hours is what I need to get through patrol without anyone picking my scent.
Th
