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  Smokestack Perfume Oil

  Grey-brown flue gasses belch from colossal steel and concrete monoliths, forming bloated clouds in the dusk-dark sky.

  Creosote, coal, and industrial waste.

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  Defututa Perfume Oil

  Good Gods, what a night that was,
  The bed was so soft, and how we clung,
  Burning together, lying this way and that,
  Our uncontrollable passions
  Flowing through our mouths.
  If I could only die that way,
  I’d say goodbye to the business of living.

  Olive blossom, honey, smoky vanilla, cinnamon, jasmine, sandalwood, and champaca flower.

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  Ghûlheim Perfume Oil

  Ghouls do not build. They are parasites and scavengers, eaters of carrion. The city they call Ghûlheim is something they found, long ago, but did not make. No one they call knows (if anyone human ever knew) what kind of creatures it was that made those buildings, who honeycombed the rock with tunnels and towers, but it is certain that no-one but the ghoul-folk could have wanted to stay there, or even to approach that place.

  Even from the path below Ghûlheim, even from miles away, Bod could see that all of the angles were wrong — that the walls sloped crazily, that it was every nightmare he had ever endured made into a place, like a huge mouth of jutting teeth. It was a city that had been built just to be abandoned, in which all the fears and madnesses and revulsions of the creatures who built it were made into stone. The ghoul folk had found it and delighted in it and called it home.

  A dark and disjointed scent: smoke and black musk, bladderwrack, opopponax, galangal, and pepper.

  Out of Stock
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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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