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  Dragon’s Milk Perfume Oil

  A truly fae nectar! Dragon’s blood resin and honeyed vanilla.

  Out of Stock This product has multiple variants. The options may be chosen on the product page
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  The Forest Reverie Perfume Oil

  ‘Tis said that when
  The hands of men
  Tamed this primeval wood,
  And hoary trees with groans of woe,
  Like warriors by an unknown foe,
  Were in their strength subdued,
  The virgin Earth Gave instant birth
  To springs that ne’er did flow
  That in the sun Did rivulets run,
  And all around rare flowers did blow
  The wild rose pale Perfumed the gale
  And the queenly lily adown the dale
  (Whom the sun and the dew
  And the winds did woo),
  With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.

  So when in tears
  The love of years
  Is wasted like the snow,
  And the fine fibrils of its life
  By the rude wrong of instant strife
  Are broken at a blow
  Within the heart
  Do springs upstart
  Of which it doth now know,
  And strange, sweet dreams,
  Like silent streams
  That from new fountains overflow,
  With the earlier tide
  Of rivers glide
  Deep in the heart whose hope has died —
  Quenching the fires its ashes hide, —
  Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
  Sweet flowers, ere long,
  The rare and radiant flowers of song!

  A sunlit ancient forest, dotted with wild roses, grape vine, and queenly lilies, clothed in swirls of opium smoke.

  Select Options This product has multiple variants. The options may be chosen on the product page
• 

  The Illustrated Woman Perfume Oil

  Skin musk, smoky vanilla, pine pitch, patchouli, Indian resins, golden honey, and tobacco.

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• 

  Priala, The Human Phoenix Perfume Oil

  As you come to the final stage, you see a spotlight focused upon a large pile of pitch-black ashes on the center of the floor. A parchment scroll has been tacked to the foot of the stage. It reads:

  Now I will believe
  That there are unicorns; that in Arabia
  There is one tree, the phoenix’ throne; one phoenix
  At this hour reigning there.

  You catch a whiff of burnt cinnamon, and a whirlwind begins to form within the center of the cold pyre. The ashes rise, condense, and coalesce into the dusky form of a woman. She shakes her body gently, tossing her hair, and the ashes fall from her skin. She is perfect, radiant: not a single cinder mars the flawlessness of her countenance. Her body seems to cast a shadow shaped like a triumphant bird, wings outstretched, onto the blank taupe canvas behind her. Her eyes are closed, and her head is bowed; her expressionless face is enigmatic. Her dark eyes begin to glow, and her mouth turns up in a secretive, intimate smile. She throws back her head and extends her arms, and suddenly the scent of smoldering myrrh assails you. Within moments, the woman explodes into flame, and you see that her face is now a vision of passionate ecstasy. The turbulence of the conflagration whips around her violently, and gouts of flame burst from her body, igniting the canvas behind her. She raises her arms in exultation, and through the flames, you see both the outline of her scorched black skeleton and the shadow of the phoenix triumphant.

  Three deep, dark myrrhs, smoke, cassia, and cinnamon bark.

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