PERFUME OIL BLENDS
Presented in an amber apothecary vial
Dried roses, rose leaf, Spanish moss, oakmoss and deep brown earth.
PERFUME OIL BLENDS
SheolOut of Stock
The Hebrew Underworld, the Abode of the Dead, the Pit. It is as forbidding as the grave itself: a joyless and dolorous cave deep with the bowels of Earth that every man, saint or sinner, must travel to upon death, where his soul finds rest in the silence and dust.
For the living know that they will die, but the dead donâ€™t know anything, neither do they have any more a reward; for the memory of them is forgotten. Also their love, their hatred, and their envy has perished long ago; neither have they any more a portion forever in anything that is done under the sun. Go your wayâ€”eat your bread with joy, and drink your wine with a merry heart; for God has already accepted your works. Let your garments be always white, and donâ€™t let your head lack oil. Live joyfully with the wife whom you love all the days of your life of vanity, which he has given you under the sun, all your days of vanity: for that is your portion in life, and in your labor in which you labor under the sun. Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with your might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in Sheol, where you are going.
Ecclesiastes 9:5 – 10
The final burst of the soul’s light and joy before passing into the depths of the earth, and into the cords of Sheol; Sheol, who is never satisfied, and who makes wide her soul to all. Vibrant gladiola, graceful stargazer lily, triumphant iris and bright heliotrope flare, and is finally made somber by heavy copal, a drop of labdanum, and tonka.
We’ve finally caved in to years of requests for vampiric scents.
As soft as grave dust and as dry as a breath drawn within a long forgotten crypt, this is Nosferatu: desiccated herbs and gritty earth brought to life with a swell of robust and sanguineous red wines.
Dance of DeathSelect Options
Carrying bouquet, and handkerchief, and gloves,
Proud of her height as when she lived, she moves
With all the careless and high-stepping grace,
And the extravagant courtesan’s thin face.
Was slimmer waist e’er in a ball-room wooed?
Her floating robe, in royal amplitude,
Falls in deep folds around a dry foot, shod
With a bright flower-like shoe that gems the sod.
The swarms that hum about her collar-bones
As the lascivious streams caress the stones,
Conceal from every scornful jest that flies,
Her gloomy beauty; and her fathomless eyes
Are made of shade and void; with flowery sprays
Her skull is wreathed artistically, and sways,
Feeble and weak, on her frail vertebrae.
O charm of nothing decked in folly! they
Who laugh and name you a Caricature,
They see not, they whom flesh and blood allure,
The nameless grace of every bleached, bare bone,
That is most dear to me, tall skeleton!
Come you to trouble with your potent sneer
The feast of Life! or are you driven here,
To Pleasure’s Sabbath, by dead lusts that stir
And goad your moving corpse on with a spur?
Or do you hope, when sing the violins,
And the pale candle-flame lights up our sins,
To drive some mocking nightmare far apart,
And cool the flame hell lighted in your heart?
Fathomless well of fault and foolishness!
Eternal alembic of antique distress!
Still o’er the curved, white trellis of your sides
The sateless, wandering serpent curls and glides.
And truth to tell, I fear lest you should find,
Among us here, no lover to your mind;
Which of these hearts beat for the smile you gave?
The charms of horror please none but the brave.
Your eyes’ black gulf, where awful broodings stir,
Brings giddiness; the prudent reveller
Sees, while a horror grips him from beneath,
The eternal smile of thirty-two white teeth.
For he who has not folded in his arms
A skeleton, nor fed on graveyard charms,
Recks not of furbelow, or paint, or scent,
When Horror comes the way that Beauty went.
O irresistible, with fleshless face,
Say to these dancers in their dazzled race:
“Proud lovers with the paint above your bones,
Ye shall taste death, musk scented skeletons!
Withered AntinoÃ¼s, dandies with plump faces,
Ye varnished cadavers, and grey Lovelaces,
Ye go to lands unknown and void of breath,
Drawn by the rumour of the Dance of Death.
From Seine’s cold quays to Ganges’ burning stream,
The mortal troupes dance onward in a dream;
They do not see, within the opened sky,
The Angel’s sinister trumpet raised on high.
In every clime and under every sun,
Death laughs at ye, mad mortals, as ye run;
And oft perfumes herself with myrrh, like ye
And mingles with your madness, irony!
A gloriously elegant representation of Lady Death. Dry, bone-white orris, black musk, serpentine patchouli and our murkiest myrrh.
Wings of AzraelOut of Stock
Azrael is the Angel of Death, marked as the last being to die in the Apocalypse. Though a harbinger of doom, his duties are an act of mercy: he curtails human life before world-weariness and despair destroys our spirits. Warm myrrh swirled with a bittersweet blend of violet, Lily of the Valley, juniper, cypess and cajeput.