• This image is decorative

    Byronic Antihero Beard Oil

    He stood – some dread was on his face,
    Soon Hatred settled in its place:
    It rose not with the reddening flush
    Of transient Anger’s hasty blush,
    But pale as marble o’er the tomb,
    Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom.
    His brow was bent, his eye was glazed;
    He raised his arm, and fiercely raised,
    And sternly shook his hand on high,
    As doubting to return or fly;
    Impatient of his flight delay’d,
    Here loud his raven charger neigh’d —
    Down glanced that hand, and grasp’d his blade;
    That sound had burst his waking dream,
    As Slumber starts at owlet’s scream,
    The spur hath lanced his courser’s sides;
    Away, away, for life he rides:
    Swift as the hurl’d on high jerreed
    Springs to the touch his startled steed:
    The rock is doubled, and the shore
    Shakes with the clattering tramp no more:
    The crag is won, no more is seen
    His Christian crest and haughty mien.
    ‘T was but an instant he restrain’d
    That fiery barb so sternly rein’d;
    ‘T was but a moment that he stood,
    Then sped as if by death pursued;
    But in that instant o’er his soul
    Winters of Memory seem’d to roll,
    And gather in that drop of time
    A life of pain, an age of crime.
    O’er him who loves, or hates, or fears,
    Such moment pours the grief of years:
    What felt he then, at once opprest
    By all that most distracts the breast?
    That pause, which ponder’d o’er his fate,
    Oh, who its dreary length shall date !
    Though in Time’s record nearly nought,
    It was Eternity to Thought !
    For infinite as boundless space
    The thought that Conscience must embrace,
    Which in itself can comprehend
    Woe without name, or hope, or end.

    – The Giaour, Lord Byron

    An aristocratic cologne of titanic passions, moody and brooding. This scent is dark with disillusionment and cynicism: a Victorian fougère and a dashing carnation boutonniere tainted by a cloud of khus, yew, and patchouli.

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  • Druids Cutting the Mistletoe on the Sixth Day of the Moon

    Druids Cutting Mistletoe on the Sixth Day of the Moon Perfume Oil

    Henri Paul Motte

    Burdock root, mugwort, birch sap, oak bark, watermint, ash leaves, wych elm, hazel nuts, juniper boughs, black poplar, yew, and dew-laden mistletoe berries.

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  • This image is decorative

    The Fool’s Dog Perfume Oil

    Sometimes playfully walking with the Fool, sometimes tugging on his stockings, sometimes attacking in a pack, sometimes tearing the ass out of his pants, sometimes chomping him right on the nuts: feral and tame, guardian and hunter, loyalty and opposition. Sometimes guiding the Fool off the cliff and other times warning him of dangers ahead.

    A warm canine musk, trampled grass, a gleam of ivory-white fang, cardamom pod, and crushed yew.

    Out of Stock
  • Wer Opfer Heut Zu Bringen Scheut Perfume Oil

    Wer Opfer heut
    Zu bringen scheut,
    Verdient erst seine Bande.
    Der Wald ist frei!
    Das Holz herbei,
    Und schichtet es zum Brande!
    Doch bleiben wir
    Im Buschrevier
    Am Tage noch im stillen,
    Und Männer stellen wir zur Hut
    Um eurer Sorge willen.
    Dann aber laßt mit frischem Mut
    Uns unsre Pflicht erfüllen.

    Who fears to-day
    His rites to pay,
    Deserves his chains to wear,
    The forest’s free!
    This wood take we,
    And straight a pile prepare!
    Yet in the wood
    To stay ’tis good
    By day till all is still,
    With watchers all around us placed
    Protecting you from ill.
    With courage fresh, then, let us haste
    Our duties to fulfil.

    A druid’s grove of ash, black pine, oak, rowan, and yew – all warm bark, rustling leaves, and glistening sap – with a scattering of hazelnuts and crushed grass.

    Out of Stock