SOKKA

Sokka has counted the supplies, questioned the route, and come up with three plans. He has also named one of them something ridiculous. It is easy to laugh with him and miss how closely he is paying attention. His fragrance smells of travel and campfires, with an herbal edge as sharp as his wit.

Black Salt: Dark and mineral, with a trace of the sea. A piece of the Southern Water Tribe he carries far from home.

Smoked Cedar: Dry, warm wood touched by fire. Nights spent keeping watch while everyone else sleeps.

Leather: Worn and familiar. The gear he takes care of, and the determination behind every hour of practice.

Blue Sage: Cool and herbal. A clear head when the plan changes, as plans often do.

Salt catches first, then cedar and leather stay close to the skin. Sokka will probably make a joke about the odds. He has already worked out how to improve them.