A Pantomime of Deviltry and Debauch in Seven Acts
PERFUME OIL BLENDS
Presented in an amber apothecary vial.
$32.00
The sound of metal smashing metal jars your ears, and you follow the cacophony to the next stage. The backdrop is painted with streaks of lightning, and you see that an iron sign hangs above it, now broken, pounded into pieces, possibly by a hammer or mallet. Despite the damage, you can still make out the words that have been burned into its face:
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A slender, willowy blonde is facing the sign, looking up at it thoughtfully. She reaches up, and with unbelievable strength, speed, and fury, pounds the sign with her fists until it is an unrecognizable mess, and it falls to the ground with a thunderous crash. She turns, and you realize that this is no creature born of woman: she is half human, half machine. Her exposed stomach shows brass and copper gears, and her joints are girded with steel. You see that her hands are covered in blood as she reaches towards a large burlap sack on the floor, picks it up, and tosses it at your feet. It lands with a sickening wet splat. She locks her gaze on yours, and her hollow, mechanical voice murmurs, “I am no man’s property.”
Gentle flowers over hot metal, shocked to life.
A Pantomime of Deviltry and Debauch in Seven Acts
PERFUME OIL BLENDS
Presented in an amber apothecary vial.
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No one ever found what the night-gaunts took, though those beasts themselves were so uncertain as to be almost fabulous. Carter asked them if night-gaunts sucked blood and liked shiny things and left webbed footprints, but they all shook their heads negatively and seemed frightened at his making such an inquiry. When he saw how taciturn they had become he asked them no more, but went to sleep in his blanket.
Their scent of their slick, rubbery hides is bittersweet, ticklish, and skin-creeping: something akin to yuzu, white grapefruit, and kumquat mixed with the snow-dusted flowers of Mount Ngranek.
Lightning splits the sky, illuminating the skeletal skyline of the carnival rides: sugared incense, flickering blue musk, and night-blooming flowers.
Even the brainiest femme fatale schemes are bound to collapse under the weight of a monstrous ego. The scent of defeat snatched from the jaws of success: a soft, satiny pink grapefruit punctured by a shiny metal drill bit.
“Most of the Gaelic poets, down to quite recent times, have had a Leanhaun Shee, for she gives inspiration to her slaves and is indeed the Gaelic muse — this malignant fairy. Her lovers, the Gaelic poets, died young. She grew restless and carried them away to other worlds, for death does not destroy her power.” – W.B. Yeats
The name translates to “fairy, love of my soul”. A vampiric spirit and a dark muse, the love of the Leanan Sidhe is both a gift and a curse. These eerily beautiful Irish spirits drain the sanity and lifeforce of the men they inspire to artistic greatness. Her kiss infuses a man with depth of vision and feeling, otherworldly passion, and a sudden and ineffable understanding of the unending sadness that plagues mankind. Her perfume is a crush of Irish herbs and flowers, Gaelic mists, and nighttime dew.
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