"Just smell it." I wave it under his nose. "We need consensus on these decisions."
He sniffs reluctantly. His expression shifts to something almost thoughtful. "It's... purple."
"That's a color, not a smell."
"It smells purple." He seems committed to this description.
"Alright, here." I grab another bottle. "This one's mint. Very different from purple."
He smells it with the same seriousness he probably uses for identifying poisons. "Sharp. Clean. Like winter."
"Excellent descriptive work! And this one's lemon."
"Too aggressive." He wrinkles his nose. "Trying to prove something."
"Oh, you're right! It is a bit shouty, isn't it? What about pine?"
Gray Streak takes the bottle, sniffs carefully. "Decent. Smells like forest."
"Good forest or bad forest?"
"There's no good forest. But this is... acceptable forest."
The shopkeeper watches this exchange with increasing alarm. Here's Gray Streak—six feet of scarred muscle and implied violence—seriously evaluating soap scents while I take notes.
"Eucalyptus?" I offer next.
"Medical. Like the healing ward but less blood."
"That's very specific. Rose?"
He sniffs. "No."
"Why not?"
"Too soft. We're not soft."
"We're literally selecting scented soaps right now."
"For strategic cleaning purposes." He picks up another bottle. "What's this one?"
I check the label. "Ocean breeze."
He smells it, frowns. "Lies. Oceans don't smell like this. Oceans smell like salt and dead fish and seaweed."
"This is more of an optimistic interpretation of ocean."
"Soap shouldn't lie." He sets it down firmly. "Lavender or mint. Those are acceptable."
"Pine was decent, you said."
"Decent isn't good enough for forty people to smell daily." He crosses his arms. "Lavender for the medical areas because it's calming. Mint for the kitchen because it's clean. Pine for the training areas because it's... sturdy."
"Sturdy? Soap can be sturdy?"
"Pine is sturdy." Complete conviction.
"You've really embraced this soap selection process."
