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  Our Lady of Pain Perfume Oil

  Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel

  Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour;

  The heavy white limbs, and the cruel

  Red mouth like a venomous flower;

  When these are gone by with their glories,

  What shall rest of thee then, what remain,

  O mystic and sombre Dolores,

  Our Lady of Pain?

   

  Sumatran patchouli, blood musk, white lavender, opium tar, and black orchid.

  Out of Stock
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  Feast of Fools Perfume Oil

  Frans Floris the Elder

  Control your own fate? You can’t even control your fête! A rollicking scent that upturns hierarchies and flies in the face of conventions: cacophonous red poppy, sweet almond cream, wildflower honey, molasses, gingerbread, scarlet jasmine, red amber, lemon peel, Spanish moss, and black musk.

  Out of Stock
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  Djinn Perfume Oil

  An ancient, free-willed race created from the essence of Fire, much as man was created from Earth. They prowled the land at night, vanishing with the first rays of dawn. Myths surrounding the Djinn paint them as many things: benevolent champions of mankind and slaves to mad sorcerers, malicious incubi / succubi and energy vampires, or malevolent harbingers of madness and disease. The Djinn are ruled by Iblis, the Prince of Darkness, who bears unspeakable contempt for man.

  The scent of black smoke, of crackling flames, and smoldering ashes.

  Select Options 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