Leather Fragrances in Myth and Legend

[The Nid Hog]

There have been a lot of good threads about leather frags over the years. For some reason, they always seem to bring out the creativity in everyone--as well as the occasional photo of Monica Bellucci. So, in the spirit of all those threads, I'd like to propose something new. Pick your favorite leather frag and write a paragraph that captures its spirit. I'll start off with one to show what I mean:

The light from a thousand candles was reflected in the mirrors that lined the ballroom and caught on the medals and the jewels that dripped from the guests. The Captain stopped in the doorway for a moment, striking a casual pose that was calculated to draw every eye. Damn that tailor for cutting this uniform so tight. But it was worth it for the attention. Napoleon’s army might be on the march, his Cossacks might be grumbling in the field, but tonight he held the cream of St. Petersburg society in the palm of his hand. Resplendent in polished leather and gold braid, in jet and silver, a crimson sash across his chest—was there another man at the ball so handsome? And a cavalry officer and a Count to boot. He caught the eye of lovely woman standing across the room by the fire. Married, he thought—to a Prince? No matter. Who could say where he would be in a week? Creed Cuir de Russie.

 

[The Nid Hog]

Here are a couple more:

The horses had been fed and groomed and were standing quietly in the stall. Might as well settle in for the night, he thought. He couldn’t imagine that the Captain would be calling for his horse again. Tomorrow he would probably have ride across St. Petersburg to rescue him from God-knows-where. It wouldn’t be the first time that he held the Captain’s horse while he tried to escape from an angry husband. He took off his fur hat, ran his fingers through his hair, and unbuttoned his greatcoat. The mutton and the black bread that the kitchen wench brought him wasn’t too bad. He automatically touched the hilt of his sabre with his left hand before picking up the bottle of vodka that he had liberated from the Captain’s saddlebags. Maybe that little wench might be back later. There were worse places to be on a night like this than a palace stable. Parfums Regence Kolnisch Juchten.

The sergeant prodded the miserable embers of the fire with the toe of his boot and growled at the chunk of meat that was cold on the spit. Why wouldn’t that bloody Davout let them get a proper fire going? Anybody left alive after the enemy line broke under the Old Guard’s last attack this afternoon was probably on the end of a cavalry lance by now. Those horsemen might look like dandies, but they were damned efficient when they went to work. Ah well, no use complaining. At least that nice dragoon officer had done them the favor of riding straight into the enemy guns, getting himself and his horse blown all to Hell. Some poor old woman in Normandy would get a letter and he and his men would have fresh horse meat for a couple of days. That is, if they lived through the night. Isn’t that the way it always was? He had been through more campaigns than he could count and everything was always up for grabs until the drums started to beat and the columns of the Guard advanced. Too much to expect that someone had found a bottle of wine in this God-forsaken wilderness. He leaned his forehead against his rifle, closed his eyes for a moment and idly wondered what Colette was doing back in Paris. Nothing good, I’ll bet. Pinaud Clubman Special Reserve.

 

[The Chandos]

Very challenging but not something I can do from work. Maybe later.

 

[The Knize]

You set a high creative writing bar, TNH! Nice writing.

For me, I think leather scents inspire mental images rather than prose, such as those images, including of Ms. Bellucci, that are often posted by members more talented and imaginative than I am in the frag of the day thread.

You might consider opening the thread up to images as well. Not that I have the imagination, and googling and inserting images skills, to participate!

Although, "if my thought dreams could be seen, they'd put my head in a guillotine . . . "