Musk - Brown

  • Bears of Berlin Perfume Oil

    Even in utero, Lilith had a full head of hair. She looked like a Monchhichi when she was born, and from the moment I first saw her, I called her Bear. She’s my Baby Bear, Bunnybear, Bearington, Beanie Bear. I made up bear bedtime stories for her – we still tell each other bear jokes all the time. Every time I see a bear video or meme, I save it for her, my little Princess Bear.

    While we were in Berlin, we made a point of taking photos with as many Buddy Bears as possible. They’re intended to symbolize peace, tolerance, and understanding between religions, nations, and cultures worldwide, and Lilith knows how important that is – especially now.

    Sweet buttered rum, brown musk, wildflower honey, tonka bean, labdanum, and clove.

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  • Moons of Saturn: Hati Perfume Oil

    East sat the crone,

    in Iárnvidir,

    Fenrir’s progeny:

    of all shall be

    one especially

    the moon’s devourer,

    in a troll’s semblance.

    Hati Hróðvitnisson, He Who Hates, the Enemy, He Who Swallows the Moon. The son of Fenris, he feasts on the flesh of the dead and on the final day, he will devour the moon and spatter the skies with blood.

    He is sated with the last breath

    of dying men;

    the gods’ seat he

    with red gore defiles:

    swart is the sunshine

    then for summers after;

    all weather turns to storm.

    Frost-limned fur, hackles hunched with insatiable, implacable rage, and death-white fangs crusted with clove-tinted blood.

    Out of Stock
  • Ruhende Ziege Mit Kitzchen Perfume Oil

    Johann Christian Reinhart

    Brown musk, leather, castoreum accord, white cedar, amber oudh, and clove bud.

    Out of Stock
  • The Bird of Prey Perfume Oil

    Feathery brown musk and hay absolute with orris and leather.

    Out of Stock
  • The Buffalo Man Perfume Oil

    Darkness; a sensation of falling—as if he were tumbling down a great hole, like Alice. He fell for a hundred years into darkness. Faces passed him, swimming out of the black, then each face was ripped up and away before he could touch it . . .

    Abruptly, and without transition, he was not falling. Now he was in a cave, and he was no longer alone. Shadow stared into familiar eyes: huge, liquid black eyes. They blinked.

    Under the earth: yes. He remembered this place. The stink of wet cow. Firelight flickered on the wet cave walls, illuminating the buffalo head, the man’s body, skin the color of brick clay.

    “Can’t you people leave me be?” asked Shadow. “I just want to sleep.”

    The buffalo man nodded, slowly. His lips did not move, but a voice in Shadow’s head said, “Where are you going, Shadow?”

    “Cairo.”

    “Why?”

    “Where else have I got to go? It’s where Wednesday wants me to go. I drank his mead.” In Shadow’s dream, with the power of dream logic behind it, the obligation seemed unarguable: he drank Wednesday’s mead three times, and sealed the pact—what other choice of action did he have?

    The buffalo-headed man reached a hand into the fire, stirring the embers and the broken branches into a blaze. “The storm is coming,” he said. Now there was ash on his hands, and he wiped it onto his hairless chest, leaving soot-black streaks.

    “So you people keep telling me. Can I ask you a question?”

    There was a pause. A fly settled on the furry forehead. The buffalo man flicked it away. “Ask.”

    “Is this true? Are these people really gods? It’s all so . . .” He paused. Then he said, “impossible,” which was not exactly the word he had been going for but seemed to be the best he could do.

    “What are gods?” asked the buffalo man.

    “I don’t know,” said Shadow.

    Warm dark brown musk, woodsmoke, and deep pools of labdanum.

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  • Year of the Ox Perfume Oil

    Soft brown musk, black peppercorn, tobacco absolute, hiba wood, and cognac.

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