Blood AmberOut of Stock
Slivers of warm, pulsating blood forever crystallized in golden amber resin.
Blood LotusOut of Stock
Lush, velvet-red blooms born from the blood shed in the eternal battle between Set and Horus the Avenger.
Blood Moon Full Lunar Eclipse
September 27th brings us a Supermoon Blood Moon Full Lunar Eclipse in Aries. This is the scent of domination and belligerence, passivity and compliance – revenge clashing against reconciliation – and the internal struggle to balance it all. Soul-rending hatred gnawing at the impulse of compassion, the struggle for safety at all costs, and the blood and tears that cleanse it all in the end.
May the Gods show mercy to any who stand in the way.
Impenetrable, blood-spattered, Martial red musk, fiery pomegranate and black pepper, the splintered woods of uncountable wooden arrow shafts and shields, sharp frankincense and morose myrrh, all smothering the gentler impulses of the moon.
Only 300 bottles crafted. $27 per little bottle of rage.
Blood PopsicleOut of Stock
The scent of frozen Type O negative.
Blood Throughout All the Land
Beholde, I will smite with the rod that is in my hand, vpon the waters which are in the riuer, and they shalbe turned to blood. And the fish that is in the riuer shall die, and the riuer shall stincke, and the Egyptians shall loathe to drinke of the water of the riuer. And the Lord spake vnto Moses, Say vnto Aaron, Take thy rod, & stretch out thine hand vpon the waters of Egypt, vpon their streames, vpon their riuers, and vpon their ponds, and vpon all their pooles of water, that they may become blood, and that there may be blood throughout all the land of Egypt, both in vessels of wood, and in vessels of stone. And Moses and Aaron did so, as the Lord commanded: and he lift vp the rod and smote the waters that were in the riuer, in the sight of Pharaoh, and in the sight of his seruants: and all the waters that were in the riuer, were turned to blood. And the fish that was in the riuer died: and the riuer stunke, and the Egyptians could not drinke of the water of the riuer: and there was blood throughout all the land Egypt.
Olive wood, acacia, and juniper, stone and clay, all thick with blood and crusted with dust.
The red of an open artery, the red of congealing blood, the red of a scarlet tomb: burgundy musk, bitter clove, crushed saffron, red sandalwood, and red oudh.
Eau de GhoulAdd to cart
They all started telling stories, then, of how fine and wonderful a thing it was to be a ghoul, of all the things they had crunched up and swallowed down with their powerful teeth. Impervious they were to disease or illness, said one of them. Why, it didn’t matter what their dinner had died of, they could just chomp it down. They told of the places they had been, which mostly seemed to be catacombs and plague-pits (“Plague Pits is good eatin’,” said the Emperor of China, and everyone agreed.) They told Bod how they had got their names and how he, in his turn, once he had become a nameless ghoul, would be named, as they had been.
“But I don’t want to become one of you,” said Bod.
“One way or another,” said the Bishop of Bath and Wells, cheerily, “you’ll become one of us. The other way is messier, involves being digested, and you’re not really around very long to enjoy it.”
“But that’s not a good thing to talk about,” said the Emperor of China.”Best to be a Ghoul. We’re afraid of nuffink!”
And all the ghouls around the coffin-wood fire howled at this statement, and growled and sang and exclaimed at how wise they were, and how mighty, and how fine it was to be scared of nothing.
Dessicated skin coated in blackened ginger, cinnamon, and mold-flecked dirt, with cumin, bitter clove, leather, and dried blood.
Fear of Saints and Holy Things
The scent of mad piety, blood and martyrdom, soul-crushing guilt, and frenzied devotion: frankincense and myrrh disoriented by labdanum, unsteady yuzu, shredded ginger, black cypress, and Aleppo Pine wood thickened with dragon’s blood resin.
Fear of Blood
Crimson splatter, pulsating with blackened vetiver.
HinzelmannAdd to cart
Where Hinzelmann had been standing stood a male child, no more than five years old. His hair was dark brown, and long. He was perfectly naked, save for a worn leather band around his neck. He was pierced with two swords, one of them going through his chest, the other entering at his shoulder, with the point coming out beneath the rib-cage. Blood flowed through the wounds without stopping and ran down the child’s body to pool and puddle on the floor. The swords looked unimaginably old.
The little boy stared up at Shadow with eyes that held only pain.
And Shadow thought to himself, of course. That’s as good a way as any other of making a tribal god. He did not have to be told. He knew.
You take a baby and you bring it up in the darkness, letting it see no one, touch no one, and you feed it well as the years pass, feed it better than any of the village’s other children, and then, five winters on, when the night is at its longest, you drag the terrified child out of its hut and into the circle of bonfires, and you pierce it with blades of iron and of bronze. Then you smoke the small body over charcoal fires until it is properly dried, and you wrap it in furs and carry it with you from encampment to encampment, deep in the Black Forest, sacrificing animals and children to it, making it the luck of the tribe. When, eventually, the thing falls apart from age, you place its fragile bones in a box, and you worship the box; until one day the bones are scattered and forgotten, and the tribes who worshipped the child-god of the box are long gone; and the child-god, the luck of the village, will be barely remembered, save as a ghost or a brownie: a kobold.
Shadow wondered which of the people who had come to northern Wisconsin 150 years ago, a woodcutter, perhaps, or a mapmaker, had crossed the Atlantic with Hinzelmann living in his head.
And then the bloody child was gone, and the blood, and there was only an old man with a fluff of white hair and a goblin smile, his sweater-sleeves still soaked from putting Shadow into the bath that had saved his life.
The luck of the tribe: black pine pitch and gouts of blood, darkness and bonfires that cast long shadows.
Shortly before his death, as he was told, the herds of horses which he had dedicated to the river Rubico when he crossed it, and had let loose without a keeper, stubbornly refused to graze and wept copiously. Again, when he was offering sacrifice, the soothsayer Spurinna warned him to beware of danger, which would come not later than the ides of March. On the day before the ides of that month a little bird called the king-bird flew into the Hall of Pompey with a sprig of laurel, pursued by others of various kinds from the grove hard by, which tore it to pieces in the hall. In fact the very night before his murder he dreamt now that he was flying above the clouds, and now that he was clasping the hand of Jupiter; and his wife Calpurnia thought that the pediment of their house fell, and that her husband was stabbed in her arms; and on a sudden the door of the room flew open of its own accord.
Dark portents writhing in a cloud of incense and a tangle of entrails: blood, red musk, black frankincense, and wet ropes of gleaming labdanum.
John Barleycorn 2013
There was three men come out o’ the west
their fortunes for to try,
And these three men made a solemn vow,
John Barleycorn must die,
They plowed, they sowed, they harrowed him in,
throwed clods upon his head,
And these three men made a solemn vow,
John Barleycorn was dead.
Barley, beer, blood, and whiskey.
La Cloche Fêlée
II est amer et doux, pendant les nuits d’hiver,
D’écouter, près du feu qui palpite et qui fume,
Les souvenirs lointains lentement s’élever
Au bruit des carillons qui chantent dans la brume.
Bienheureuse la cloche au gosier vigoureux
Qui, malgré sa vieillesse, alerte et bien portante,
Jette fidèlement son cri religieux,
Ainsi qu’un vieux soldat qui veille sous la tente!
Moi, mon âme est fêlée, et lorsqu’en ses ennuis
Elle veut de ses chants peupler l’air froid des nuits,
II arrive souvent que sa voix affaiblie
Semble le râle épais d’un blessé qu’on oublie
Au bord d’un lac de sang, sous un grand tas de morts
Et qui meurt, sans bouger, dans d’immenses efforts.
– – –
Bitter and sweet it is on these long winter nights
To sit before the fire and watch the smoking log
Beat like a heart; and hear our lost, our mute delights
Call with the carillons that ring out in the fog.
What certitude, what health, sounds from that brazen throat,
In spite of age and rust, alert! O happy bell,
Sending into the dark your clear religious note,
Like an old soldier crying through the night, “All’s well!”
I am not thus; my soul is cracked across by care;
Its voice, that once could clang upon this icy air,
Has lost the power, it seems, — comes faintly forth, instead,
As from the rattling throat of a hurt man who lies
Beside a lake of blood, under a heap of dead,
And cannot stir, and in prodigious struggling dies.
— Charles Baudelaire, translation by Edna St. Vincent Millay
A new interpretation, inspired by Millay’s translation-
A soul, cracked across by care: blood and ruin, smoke and sorrow, incense and ice.
Honey, rose petals, and carnations – a drop of blood – red clover, cubeb berries, and vanilla cream.
Love Makes Monsters of Us All
It’s nature. A savage world of little things dying or eating each other right beneath our feet.
Flora and fauna, man and beast entwined in a cycle of endless brutality: soil and rot and the heat of rage, blood-smeared musk and sharp decay.
Managarm’s Bloody Jaws
Then the ancient witch who lived in Jarnvid, the Iron Wood, fed the Wolf Managarm on unburied men and on the corpses of those who fell in battle. Mightily grew and flourished the Wolf that was to be the devourer of Mani, the Moon. The Champions in Valhalla would find their seats splashed with the blood that Managarm dashed from his jaws; this was a sign to the Gods that the time of the last battle was approaching.
The offspring of Fenrir, known in whispers as the Moon-Hound, the Moon-Snatcher, the Enemy, He Who Hates: ironwood needles and blood-matted fur.
MithrasAdd to cart
“…You run into Mithras yet? Red cap. Nice kid.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well . . . I’ve never seen Mithras around here. He was an army brat. Maybe he’s back in the Middle East, taking it easy, but I expect he’s probably gone by now. It happens. One day every soldier in the empire has to shower in the blood of your sacrificial bull. The next they don’t even remember your birthday.”
Oblations of milk, oil, honey, and blood.
Storyboard: Julius Caesar
Lilith has been taking kiddo Shakespeare classes for the past four years, and absolutely loves them. Last year, they did a mini-series focusing on Julius Caesar, King Lear, and the Tempest. The kids analyze the plays, and perform scenes from them; then, at the end of the cycle, they put together a play of their own based on the themes in the works of Shakespeare that they have studied. Their play this time around was entitled Evil Bunny.
Lilith performed as Marc Antony, and showed off her orator skills. Hearing Lilith speak at Caesar’s funeral gave me the chills. She came to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
Macerated myrrh, rose petals, and iris with frankincense and a splash of blood.
The Battle of Vigridr
And now, for the third time, Garm, the hound with blood upon his jaws, barked. He had broken loose on the world, and with fierce bounds he rushed toward Vigard Plain, where the Gods had assembled their powers. Loud barked Garm. The Eagle Hræsvelgur screamed on the edge of heaven. Then the skies were cloven, and the tree Ygdrassil was shaken in all its roots.
To the place where the Gods had drawn up their ranks came the ship of Jötunheim and the ship of Hel, came the riders of Muspelheim, and Garm, the hound with blood upon his jaws. And out of the sea that now surrounded the plain of Vigard the serpent Jörmungand came.
What said Odin to the Gods and to the Champions who surrounded him? “We will give our lives and let our world be destroyed, but we will battle so that these evil powers will not live after us.” Out of Hel’s ship sprang Fenrir the Wolf. His mouth gaped; his lower jaw hung against the earth, and his upper jaw scraped the sky. Against the Wolf Odin All-Father fought. Thor might not aid him, for Thor had now to encounter Jörmungand, the monstrous serpent.
By Fenrir the Wolf Odin was slain. But the younger Gods were now advancing to the battle; and Vidar, the Silent God, came face to face with Fenrir. He laid his foot on the Wolf’s lower jaw, that foot that had on the sandal made of all the scraps of leather that shoemakers had laid by for him, and with his hands he seized the upper jaw and tore his gullet. Thus died Fenrir, the fiercest of all the enemies of the Gods.
Jörmungand, the monstrous serpent, would have overwhelmed all with the venom he was ready to pour forth. But Thor sprang forward and crushed him with a stroke of his hammer Miölnir. Then Thor stepped back nine paces. But the serpent blew his venom over him, and blinded and choked and burnt, Thor, the World’s Defender, perished.
Loki sprang from his ship and strove with Heimdall, the Warder of the Rainbow Bridge and the Watcher for the Gods. Loki slew Heimdall and was slain by him.
Bravely fought Tyr, the God who had sacrificed his swordhand for the binding of the Wolf. Bravely he fought, and many of the powers of evil perished by his strong left hand. But Garm, the hound with bloody jaws, slew Tyr.
And now the riders of Muspelheim came down on the field. Bright and gleaming were all their weapons. Before them and behind them went wasting fires. Surtur cast fire upon the earth; the tree Ygdrassil took fire and burned in all its great branches; the World Tree was wasted in the blaze. But the fearful fire that Surtur brought on the earth destroyed him and all his host.
The blood of the gods cascading onto earth and into sea: salt and sinew, venom and flame, and bone shards scattered across the gore-soaked soil of Óskópnir.
The Blood GardenAdd to cart
Vast open tents have been erected further down the lane. Ornately carved wooden poles support swaths of drooping black lace and blood-crusted burgundy velvet. Grapevines and ivy creep over the beams in the tent and curl like cocoons around bodies that hang upside-down in the caliginous gloom of the tents. Within the shadows, pale figures recline on divans covered in moldering, frayed fabric. As you pass, a feral, white-haired man hoists a tall-stemmed crystal glass of deep red liquid in a toast to you.
Blood accord, bitter clove, English ivy, Tempranillo grape, red currant, oak, leather, blackberry leaf, and ginger lily.
The CarouselAdd to cart
Calliope music played: a Strauss waltz, stirring and occasionally discordant. The wall as they entered was hung with antique carousel horses, hundreds of them, some in need of a lick of paint, others in need of a good dusting; above them hung dozens of winged angels constructed rather obviously from female store-window mannequins; some of them bared their sexless breasts; some had lost their wigs and stared baldly and blindly down from the darkness.
And then there was the carousel.
A sign proclaimed it was the largest in the world, said how much it weighed, how many thousand lightbulbs were to be found in the chandeliers that hung from it in Gothic profusion, and forbade anyone from climbing on it or from riding on the animals.
And such animals! Shadow stared, impressed in spite of himself, at the hundreds of full-sized creatures who circled on the platform of the carousel. Real creatures, imaginary creatures, and transformations of the two: each creature was different. He saw mermaid and merman, centaur and unicorn, elephants (one huge, one tiny), bulldog, frog and phoenix, zebra, tiger, manticore and basilisk, swans pulling a carriage, a white ox, a fox, twin walruses, even a sea serpent, all of them brightly colored and more than real: each rode the platform as the waltz came to an end and a new waltz began. The carousel did not even slow down.
“What’s it for?” asked Shadow. “I mean, okay, world’s biggest, hundreds of animals, thousands of lightbulbs, and it goes around all the time, and no one ever rides it.”
“It’s not there to be ridden, not by people,” said Wednesday. “It’s there to be admired. It’s there to be.”
A place of power and possibility, of gods diabolical and celestial: glowing amber and heady cinnamon, the green of growing things and the white of thunderclaps, sweet myrrh and sacred styrax, forest moss and blood-soaked battlefields, papyrus and clay, rose petals, wildflowers, abbatoirs, and honey.
The ChapelAdd to cart
You come to a building that seems to have been hastily erected from splintered wood, stone, and plaster. Flickering light from within sparkles out through blood-tinged chunks of glass that have been wedged into the arch entrance. You push open the thick velvet curtain that covers the mouth of the building and look inside. The chapel is small and cramped, and the air is thick with heavy incense, bitter wine, sulphur, and the coppery scent of blood. A massive stained glass window is set against the back wall, glowing brightly.
In the center of the room, a groveling figure is crouched before a woman draped in purple-black clerical robes. The woman’s eyes are filled with righteous hellfire, and she extends a hand in benediction to the man who has fallen prostrate at her feet. He murmurs, “Libera Te Ex Caelum”, and she gestures for him to rise. As he gets to his knees he winces in pain and moans in a strange expression of ecstasy, and you see small horns growing from his skull.
Black incense, bitter wine, brimstone, bile, and blood.
The Cracked BellAdd to cart
How bittersweet it is, on winter’s night,
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
Lucky the bell — still full and deep of throat,
Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent —
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
Like some poor wounded wretch — long left for dead
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
By bloody pool — rattling, gasping his last.
A winter’s horror: smoke and stillness, faded incense and the metallic tang of blood.
The Edge of DoomAdd to cart
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
The night flight from Tangier: drops of spilled blood color the antiseptic, bland, plastic paleness of the fuselage, with violet leaf for longing, rosemary for reminiscences, and black opoponax for apprehension.
The Ghost of Clytemnestra Awakening the Furies
An incense to call the Erinyes: opoponax steeped in black wine, spindle tree sap, nightshade accord, yew needles, and a drop of blood.
The Head of HolofernesAdd to cart
And when it was grown late, his servants made haste to their lodgings, and Vagao shut the chamber doors, and went his way.
And they were all overcharged with wine.
And Judith was alone in the chamber.
But Holofernes lay on his bed, fast asleep, being exceedingly drunk.
And Judith spoke to her maid to stand without before the chamber, and to watch:
And Judith stood before the bed praying with tears, and the motion of her lips in silence,
Saying: Strengthen me, O Lord God of Israel, and in this hour look on the works of my hands, that as thou hast promised, thou mayst raise up Jerusalem thy city: and that I may bring to pass that which I have purposed, having a belief that it might be done by thee.
And when she had said this, she went to the pillar that was at his bed’s head, and loosed his sword that hung tied upon it.
And when she had drawn it out, she took him by the hair of his head, and said: Strengthen me, O Lord God, at this hour.
And she struck twice upon his neck, and out off his head, and took off his canopy from the pillars, and rolled away his headless body.
And after a while she went out, and delivered the head of Holofernes to her maid, and bade her put it into her wallet.
And they two went out according to their custom, as it were to prayer, and they passed the camp, and having compassed the valley, they came to the gate of the city.
And Judith from afar off cried to the watchmen upon the walls: Open the gates for God is with us, who hath shewn his power in Israel.
And it came to pass, when the men had heard her voice, that they called the ancients of the city.
And all ran to meet her from the least to the greatest: for they now had no hopes that she would come.
And lighting up lights they all gathered round about her: and she went up to a higher place, and commanded silence to be made. And when all had held their peace,
Judith said: Praise ye the Lord our God, who hath not forsaken them that hope in him.
And by me his handmaid he hath fulfilled his mercy, which he promised to the house of Israel: and he hath killed the enemy of his people by my hand this night.
Then she brought forth the head of Holofernes out of the wallet, and shewed it them, saying:
Behold the head of Holofernes the general of the army of the Assyrians, and behold his canopy, wherein he lay in his drunkenness, where the Lord our God slew him by the hand of a woman.
Dried blood, boiled wine, leather, galbanum, onycha, tonka bean, and pomegranate.
The Hellish Tattoo of The Heart
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! — do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am.
Blood musk and pulsating black pepper, a throb of bitter almond, and cracked pimento.
The Rending of the Rock
A dog barked; deep down in the earth a dog barked; it was Garm, the hound with bloody mouth, barking in Gnipa’s Cave. The Dwarfs who heard groaned before their doors of stone. The tree Ygdrassil moaned in all its branches. There was a rending noise as the Giants moved their ship; there was a trampling sound as the hosts of Muspelheim gathered their horses.
But Jötunheim and Muspelheim and Hel waited tremblingly; it might be that Fenrir the Wolf might not burst the bonds wherewith the Gods had bound him. Without his being loosed the Gods might not be destroyed. And then was heard the rending of the rock as Fenrir broke loose. For the second time the Hound Garm barked in Gnipa’s Cave.
Doom unfettered, the ruin of hope: the tattered remains of Gelgja, smashed stone, feral grey musk, and blackened blood.
The Sea Foams BloodSelect Options
When you return go alone, just you and the children and when you approach the beach then call for me:
If alive, may the sea foam milk
If dead, may the sea foam blood…
And if you see coming towards you foaming milk then know that I am still alive, but if blood comes then I have reached my end. While you, my children, let not the secret out, do not let anyone know how to call for me.
Blood rising through an ocean wave.
ThornsOut of Stock
`Ah, ah! you thought to find your lady love, but the pretty bird has flown and its song is dumb; the cat caught it, and will scratch out your eyes too. Rapunzel is lost to you for ever–you will never see her more.’
The Prince was beside himself with grief, and in his despair he jumped right down from the tower, and, though he escaped with his life, the thorns among which he fell pierced his eyes out. Then he wandered, blind and miserable, through the wood, eating nothing but roots and berries, and weeping and lamenting the loss of his lovely bride.
Thorn-spiked vines, blood, and tears.
TranseoAdd to cart
The Transeo are vampires that have assimilated into human society, often reaching positions of power. Among the Transeo there are many celebrated politicians, scientists, businessmen, philosophers, artists, writers, and musicians, and, surprisingly, a large number of influential clergy and militarists. Not every Transeo is an illustrious public figure; many simply desire the comforts associated with reentering society. In the past, most Transeo posed as humans as best they could, concealing their true natures. In the twenty-first century, more and more Transeo are coming out in the open, and they form the backbone of most vampire-acceptance movements.
GA cologne that (almost) blends well into human society: benzoin, orange blossom, cumin, King mandarin, gaiac wood, juniper berry, Calabrian bergamot, Ceylon cinnamon, and blood camouflaged by wine.
“Take it, then,” the Tsar said, “and bid her do it for me.” The old woman brought the linen home and told Vasilissa the Tsar’s command: “Well I knew that the work would needs be done by my own hands,” said Vasilissa, and, locking herself in her own room, began to make the shirts. So fast and well did she work that soon a dozen were ready. Then the old woman carried them to the Tsar, while Vasilissa washed her face, dressed her hair, put on her best gown and sat down at the window to see what would happen. And presently a servant in the livery of the Palace came to the house and entering, said: “The Tsar, our lord, desires himself to see the clever needlewoman who has made his shirts and to reward her with his own hands.”
Vasilissa rose and went at once to the Palace, and as soon as the Tsar saw her, he fell in love with her with all his soul. He took her by her white hand and made her sit beside him. “Beautiful maiden,” he said, “never will I part from thee and thou shalt be my wife.”
So the Tsar and Vasilissa the Beautiful were married, and her father returned from the far-distant Tsardom, and he and the old woman lived always with her in the splendid Palace, in all joy and contentment. And as for the little wooden doll, she carried it about with her in her pocket all her life long.
She herself had cheeks like blood and milk and grew every day more and more beautiful.
Creamy skin musk and blushing pink musk with soft sandalwood, white amber, dutiful myrrh, and star jasmine.
Worm Moon 2014
Do not smirk as a hearse goes by,
For you may be the next to die.
They wrap you up in a big white sheet
And throw you down six feet deep.
They put you in a big black box,
And cover you up with dirt and rocks.
All goes well for a week or two,
Then things start changing; all is new.
The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out,
The worms play pinochle on your snout.
A big green worm with rolling eyes,
Crawls in your stomach and out your eyes.
Til your blood turns mossy green
And oozes out like Devonshire cream.
Worm Moon marks the season of rains, when the worms scuttle forth, aerating the earth with their movements and enriching the soil by digesting waste in organic material, which creates organic fertilizer.
This is a melding of Victorian Grotesquery and springtime fecundity: mold-crusted dirt, decomposing organic matter, coffin wood, drooping funeral flowers, grave bricks, congealed blood, wreaths of laurel and boxwood, gloomy lunar oils, and cuckoo flower with something moist lurking underneath.
Worm Moon 2014 art by the lovely Abigail Larson!