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  Seven Word Story: Lust Perfume Oil

  Quoth one of the wordiest humans who ever lived: “Brevity is the soul of wit.”

  This spring we challenged friends and fans to answer that call, baring their souls (and more) in our steamy, Lust-themed #BPAL7wordstory contest

  “Seduce us in seven!” we demanded, promising the winning story would be enshrined in a Limited Edition fragrance. The response was overwhelming — and downright filthy. Over eight hundred entries later, Lust found its new champion. The winning story, submitted via Twitter by @GeekDame, took flight in our perfumer’s imagination and resulted in the following myth-tinged tryst.

  Congrats to the winner, and keep your quills sharp! #BPAL7wordstory is only getting started.

  He breathed smoke across her pomegranate-stained lips.

  Chthonic incense and blood-red pomegranate.

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  Imp Pack: Incense Perfume Oil

  –Arcana
  The essence of magickal enigmas and long-forgotten esoteric mysteries. Frankincense, rosemary, lavender, neroli, and verbena.

  – Cairo
  The essence of holy Kyphi, beloved incense of the Egyptian Gods.

  – The Caterpillar
  Heavy incense notes waft lazily through a mix of carnation, jasmine, bergamot, and neroli over a lush bed of dark mosses, iris blossom, deep patchouli and indolent vetiver.

  – Cathedral
  A true ecclesiatical blend of pure resins.

  – Hellfire
  A swirl of pipe tobacco, hot leather, ambergris, dark musk and the lingering incense smoke from their Black Mass.

  – Penitence
  A blend of pure, pious frankincense and graceful myrrh.

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  Philologus Perfume Oil

  The Philologi are scholars and philosophers that have dedicated themselves to the pursuit of knowledge, utilizing their extended lifespan to further their research. They are usually reclusive, and some were once Transeo that have rejected the bustle of human society in favor of solitude.

  Ancient books, crackled parchment, faded incense, and candle wax.

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  Stormclouds Over the Midway Perfume Oil

  In your smoke-addled confusion, the Midway seems strangely empty and devoid of life. The tents that line the path appear distorted, out of proportion, and cartoonish, their angles arching menacingly.

  For a moment, the only sound you hear is the soft squelch of your boots on the damp ground. As your eyes adjust, the tents right themselves, the sounds of the Midway swirl around you, and you feel the press of the crowd against your body. The Calliope’s eerie drone lilts above the swelling chatter.

  Wine-colored storm clouds are gathering, and the scent of incense and ozone is thick in the wet air.

  Thunder-charged ozone, plum-colored incense smoke, opium tar, and wormwood.

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