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  The Drunkard’s Dream Perfume Oil

  The drunk in the graveyard raised his bottle to his lips. One of the gravestones flipped over, revealing a grasping corpse; a headstone turned around, flowers replaced by a grinning skull. A wraith appeared on the right of the church, while on the left of the church something with a half-glimpsed, pointed, unsettlingly birdlike face, a pale, Boschian nightmare, glided smoothly from a headstone into the shadows and was gone. Then the church door opened, a priest came out, and the ghosts, haunts, and corpses vanished, and only the priest and the drunk were left alone in the graveyard. The priest looked down at the drunk disdainfully, and backed through the open door, which closed behind him, leaving the drunk on his own.

  The clockwork story was deeply unsettling. Much more unsettling, thought Shadow, than clockwork has any right to be.

  “You know why I show that to you?” asked Czernobog.

  “No.”

  “That is the world as it is. That is the real world. It is there, in that box.”

  Red currant and labdanum with opoponax, vetiver, grave moss, white sandalwood, and khus.

  Out of Stock
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  Good Luck! Good Luck! I Say Perfume Oil

  Good  Luck! Good Luck! I say

  Be yours this

  NEW YEAR’S DAY
  
  May 2024 bring us all good fortune, prosperity, good health, safety, peace, and mercy.

   

  A sugared cherry chypre with red labdanum, moss, and roasted chestnut.

  Out of Stock
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  The Harlot’s House Perfume Oil

  We caught the tread of dancing feet,
  We loitered down the moonlit street,
  And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.

  Inside, above the din and fray,
  We heard the loud musicians play
  The “Treues Liebes Herz” of Strauss.

  Like strange mechanical grotesques,
  Making fantastic arabesques,
  The shadows raced across the blind.

  We watched the ghostly dancers spin
  To sound of horn and violin,
  Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.

  Like wire-pulled automatons,
  Slim silhouetted skeletons
  Went sidling through the slow quadrille.

  The took each other by the hand,
  And danced a stately saraband;
  Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

  Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
  A phantom lover to her breast,
  Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.

  Sometimes a horrible marionette
  Came out, and smoked its cigarette
  Upon the steps like a live thing.

  Then, turning to my love, I said,
  “The dead are dancing with the dead,
  The dust is whirling with the dust.”

  But she–she heard the violin,
  And left my side, and entered in:
  Love passed into the house of lust.

  Then suddenly the tune went false,
  The dancers wearied of the waltz,
  The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.

  And down the long and silent street,
  The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
  Crept like a frightened girl.

  The dead are dancing with the dead, the dust is whirling with the dust: angel’s trumpet, violet, white sandalwood, oude, copaiba balsam, angelica, white tea, olibanum, and oakmoss.

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

  The Stormhold had been carved out of the peak of Mount Huon by the first lord of Stormhold, who reigned at the end of the First Age and into the beginning of the Second. It had been expanded, improved upon, excavated and tunneled into by successive Masters of Stormhold, until the original mountain peak now raked the sky like the ornately carved tusk of some great, grey, granite beast. The Stormhold itself was perched high in the sky, where the thunder clouds gathered before they went down to the lower air, spilling rain and lightning and devastation upon the place beneath.

  Creeping moss, slick granite, murky vetiver, lightning-charged ozone, and icy rain.

  Out of Stock