...and there... sat a lumpish figure robed in yellow silk with red and having a yellow silken mask over its face. To this being the slant-eyed man made certain signs with his hands, and the lurker in the dark replied by raising a disgustingly carven flute of ivory in silk covered paws and blowing certain loathesome sounds from beneath its flowing silken mask. Monastic incense, blood musk, black leather, cypress, pimento, white pepper, and Roman chamomile.

Louder and louder, wilder and wilder, mounted the shrieking and whining of that desperate viol. The player was dripping with an uncanny perspiration and twisted like a monkey, always looking frantically at the curtained window. In his frenzied strains I could almost see shadowy satyrs and bacchanals dancing and whirling insanely through seething abysses of clouds and smoke and lightning. And then I thought I heard a shriller, steadier note that was not from the viol; a calm, deliberate, purposeful, mocking note from far away in the West.

A ghoulish and tortured scent, suffused with the blackness of space illimitable: ajowan, vetiver, black musk, opoponax, mimosa, and tamarind.

And it was then that Nyarlathotep came out of Egypt. Who he was, none could tell, but he was of the old native blood and looked like a Pharaoh. The fellahin knelt when they saw him, yet could not say why. He said he had risen up out of the blackness of twenty-seven centuries, and that he had heard messages from places not on this planet. Into the lands of civilisation came Nyarlathotep, swarthy, slender, and sinister, always buying strange instruments of glass and metal and combining them into instruments yet stranger. He spoke much of the sciences - of electricity and psychology - and gave exhibitions of power which sent his spectators away speechless, yet which swelled his fame to exceeding magnitude. Men advised one another to see Nyarlathotep, and shuddered. And where Nyarlathotep went, rest vanished; for the small hours were rent with the screams of a nightmare. Brooding, yet electric: the scent of buried secrets, roiling nightmares, the essence of the Crawling Chaos, the Father of Knives and Locusts, the Hunter in the Dark. This is the blackest of ritual incenses charged with flashes of ozone.

It was a terrible, indescribable thing vaster than any subway train – a shapeless congerie of protoplasmic bubbles, faintly self-luminous, and with myriads of temporary eyes forming and un-forming as pustules of greenish light all over the tunnel-filling front that bore down upon us, crushing the frantic penguins and slithering over the glistening floor that it and its kind had swept so evilly free of all litter. An amorphous, radiant, incandescent scent. Ever changing, protoplasmic and primordial: white amber, green coconut meat, iris, palmarosa, Chinese peony, lime, water lily, snowdrop, muguet, lemongrass, osmanthus, wisteria, glassy musk, and hinoki.

Powerful, commanding, blazing with strength.

Named in honor of the most notorious female pirate to ever set sail. Wicked, cruel, beautiful, intelligent, resourceful and dangerous: a true role model. A blend of Indonesian red patchouli, red sandalwood, and frankincense. A million thanks to Juliana Williamson-Page for inspiration!

The essence of magickal enigmas and long-forgotten esoteric mysteries. Frankincense, rosemary, lavender, neroli, and lemon verbena.

I grieve and dare not show my discontent, I love and yet am forced to seem to hate, I do, yet dare not say I ever meant, I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate.

   I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned,
   Since from myself another self I turned. 

My care is like my shadow in the sun, Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it, Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done. His too familiar care doth make me rue it.

   No means I find to rid him from my breast,
   Till by the end of things it be supprest. 

Some gentler passion slide into my mind, For I am soft and made of melting snow; Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind. Let me or float or sink, be high or low.

   Or let me live with some more sweet content,
   Or die and so forget what love ere meant.

Inspired by the tragic, ill-fated love of Queen Elizabeth I and the Earl of Leicester. This is our modernization of a 17th-century perfume blend favored by British aristocracy: rosemary, orange flower, grape spirit, five rose variants, lemon peel, and mint.

A play of geological darkness and jagged brilliance. Soft and luminescent with flashes of black fire.

In Irish folklore the Dana O'Shee are a fae, elven people that live in a realm of beauty, their nobility akin to our that own Age of Chivalry, eternally beautiful and eternally young. They surround themselves with the pleasures of the Arts, they live for the hunt, and to this day can be seen riding in procession through the Irish countryside at twilight, led by their King and Queen. However, the Dana O'Shee are not benevolent creatures, despite what their unearthly beauty may imply. They are vengeful and treacherous and possess a streak of mischievous malice, and many have whispered that their true home lies deep in the shadowed groves of the Realm of the Dead. Hearing even a single chord of their otherworldly music leaves one stunned and lost to the mortal realms for ever, finding themselves prey to the Dana O'Shee's hunt or enslaved in their Court as servants or playthings. Offerings of milk, honey and sweet grains were made to placate these creatures, and it is that the basis of the scent created in their name.

All the glory, warmth and majesty of the sun — darkened. A delicious blend of bitter almond, vanilla, frankincense and heliotrope, with a drop of cinnamon.

Arrr! Avast ye, matey! This be the scent of pirate rum!

Though thy slumber may be deep, Yet thy spirit shall not sleep; There are shades which will not vanish, There are thoughts thou canst not banish; By a power to thee unknown, Thou canst never be alone; Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, Thou art gather'd in a cloud; And for ever shalt thou dwell In the spirit of this spell. A profound and entrancing potion, deep, wispy, and unfathomably dark scent: vetiver, dark woods, crumbling and burnt black sandalwood and a drop of lemon rind.

Sea spray with an undercurrent of leather, Bay Rum, and salty, dry woods.

Shocking, horrific, fierce, savage, sensationalized, luminous and hazy: black currant, Bulgarian lavender and white musk with a dollop of thick resin and a voltaic charge of ozone notes.

An ancient blend, swollen with arcane power: galangal, high john essence, frankincense, cedar, and sandalwood.

Desolation. The remnants of an empire, shivering with forgotten glories, a monument to megalomania, sundered power, and colossal loss. Dry desert air, dry and hot, passing over crumbling stone megaliths and plundered golden monuments, bearing a hint of the incense of lost Gods on its winds.

Envelop yourself in the soft, sensual embrace of gentle sandalwood warmed by cocoa vanilla and a veil of deep myrrh.

To your side, you hear a man’s deep whisper, “Slowly I turned… inch by inch… step by step….” A scream interrupts him, and a roar of laughter pulses through the shadowed hall. Following the commotion, you move to the next stage. A bone-thin man moves across the stage, and sits upon an overstuffed, threadbare armchair. A battered violin is propped against the chair’s side. The audience starts to dissipate, and you realize that you must have just missed his performance. Relaxing, he reclines lazily, and as the light falls on his face, you come to realize that he is truly skeletal: a thin membrane of skin covers most of his body, but in many places, bone is completely exposed. He winks at you, and chuckles at your obvious discomfiture. The sweet smoke from his cigar touches your senses, and you hear the soft clink of the ice as he swirls the bourbon in his tumbler.

“Late for the show, are ya, friend? I’ll tell you a quick one, and then you’d best skedaddle. I have better things to do than sit here and be gawked at all night.” He takes a swig from his tumbler.

“A man goes to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist says, ‘I think you’re crazy.’ The man says, ‘I want a second opinion.’ The psychiatrist says, ‘Alright, you’re ugly, too.’”

His attention is diverted by a scantily clad woman in the audience beside you, and he leers at her. “Hello, nurse!” he growls, and leans towards her lecherously. “How’s about you come back to my dressing room, and I show you my stamp collection?”

Bourbon, tobacco, dry bone, bay rum aftershave, and sleazy cologne.

Snake Oil with blood orange, red apple, lemon peel, plumeria, and gardenia.

Elizabeth Báthory, also called Erzsébet Báthory in Hungarian and Al_beta Bátoriová-Náda_dy in Slovak, was the Bloody Lady of Hungary. In order to preserve her youth and loveliness, the brutal and incomparably savage countess captured, tortured and slaughtered innumerable young women and bathed in their blood as part of her beauty regimen. Ah, vanity. Corrupted black plum, smoky opium and crumbling dead roses covered by a deceptive veil of Hungarian lilac, white gardenia and wild berry.

Created in honor of the fiery, vicious Princess of Hell and bloodthirsty general who governs thirty-six legions of infernal warriors. Her lust for bloodshed and manslaughter is matched only by her love of the classical arts and sciences - definitely a woman that we respect. A seething, fiery blend of dragon's blood, deep myrrh, red and black musks, civet and thick red patchouli, glistening with drops of rose and ylang ylang.

From livid skies that, without end, As stormy as your future roll, What thoughts into your empty soul (Answer me, libertine!) descend? — Insatiable yet for all That turns on darkness, doom, or dice, I'll not, like Ovid, mourn my fall, Chased from the Latin paradise. Skies, torn like seacoasts by the storm! In you I see my pride take form, And the huge clouds that rush in streams Are the black hearses of my dreams, And your red rays reflect the hell, In which my heart is pleased to dwell. The perfume of a hellbound soul, gleefully lost to iniquity: blood musk, golden honey, thick black wine, champagne grapes, tobacco flower, plum blossom, tonka bean, oakmoss, carnation, benzoin, opoponax, and sugar cane.

Orgiastic mayhem in the extreme: sweet strawberry and orange blossom distorted by carnation, black poppy and hibiscus.

Dark children conceived from the union of Fallen Angels and the Daughters of Men. According to lore, the angel Shemhazai led a group of his angels to earth to instruct mankind in the ways of piety and righteousness. After a time, the angels became prey to earthly desires and began to lust after the daughters of man, and thus they fell. They instructed their mortal mates in the arts of conjuration, summoning, necromancy and other magickal arts. The fruits of their union are the Nephilim: possessed of superhuman strength, cunning, and infinite capacity, and hunger for, sin. Venerated as heroes by some, vilified by most, the Nephilim eventually annihilated one another in a cataclysmic civil war instigated by the angel Gabriel as punishment for their transgressions.

Holy frankincense and hyssop in union with earthy fig, defiled by black patchouli and vetiver, with a chaotic infusion of lavender, cardamom, tamarind, rosemary, oakmoss and cypress.

Also known as Krisky, Plaksy and Gorska Makua, she is a nightmare spirit, the Night Hag of the Woods, who haunts Polish, Russian, Bulgarian and Slovak children during the darkest hours. The only protection against her torments is a circle drawn around a child's cradle with a knife, or an axe or protective poppet hidden under the floorboards beneath where a child sleeps. Her scent is that of a lightless fir wood, nighttime air, wet forest mosses and upturned earth.

Splendour.

Three golden ambers, bright musk, peach wine and myrtle.

The Spirit of the Divine Messenger, the Lord of the Crossroads, He Who Owns All Doors and Roads in this World. He is the intermediary between the Orishas and mankind, and stands at the intersection of humanity and the Divine. He opens all paths of communication, both mundane and Heavenly. His ofrenda contains coconut, tobacco and sweet, sugared rum.

Goddess of Strife and Discord, constant companion and sometime consort to Ares. She is a fickle, chaotic Goddess of Bedlam whose greatest passion is the sowing of dissention and turmoil. A suitably disjointed scent, bursting with gleeful mayhem: wet fruits and sharp mimosa with Martial spices and a deceptive flash of floral.

Magnificent three-faced Goddess of Magic, the Dark Moon and the Crossroads. She is the Mother of Witches, and the midnight baying of hounds is her paean. Her compassion is evidenced in her role as Psychopomp for Persephone, and her wrath manifests as Medea's revenge. Deep, buttery almond layered over myrrh and dark musk.

But oh Melpomene! thy lyre of wo— To what a mournful pitch its keys were strung, And when thou badest its tones of sorrow flow, Each weeping Muse, enamoured, o'er thee hung: How sweet—how heavenly sweet, when faintly rose The song of grief, and at its dying close The soul seemed melting in the trembling breast; The eye in dews of pity flowed away, And every heart, by sorrow's load opprest, To infant softness sunk, as breathed thy mournful lay. The Songstress. Melpomene is Tragedy, and the sound of Her voice is filled with beauty, power and strength. She is crowned in cypress branches, holds the mask of tragedy, wears the cothurnus and wields a knife or club. Her scent is rife with pathos, and inspires us with the ability to express our grief, loss, and the pain in our souls in a cathartic, creative fashion: dark cypress with mint, geranium, Bulgar lavender, orange blossom and passion flower.

An attendant of the Goddess Venus. She presides over nocturnal pleasure, nighttime festivities, and all the joy and delight that can be found in the darkness. In later ages, it became the name of the all-night festival that closed the Eleusinian Mysteries. Night-blooming jasmine, moonflower, cardamom, sandalwood, black currant, ylang ylang, frankincense and lily.

Lord of the Smoking Mirror, god of sorcery, nighttime, darkness, beauty, war, heroic men, beautiful women, and all material concerns. Tezcatlipoca is the Master Magician, a trickster god and shapeshifter, governing all worldly matters, and is also the Great Tempter, seducing men into evil acts and subsequently punishing them for their transgressions. Deep cocoa laced with patchouli, leather armor, ritual incense, and a touch of Xochiquetzal's flowers.

Necessity. Deep herbs and apple with black amber.

Carrying bouquet, and handkerchief, and gloves, Proud of her height as when she lived, she moves With all the careless and high-stepping grace, And the extravagant courtesan's thin face. Was slimmer waist e'er in a ball-room wooed? Her floating robe, in royal amplitude, Falls in deep folds around a dry foot, shod With a bright flower-like shoe that gems the sod. The swarms that hum about her collar-bones As the lascivious streams caress the stones, Conceal from every scornful jest that flies, Her gloomy beauty; and her fathomless eyes Are made of shade and void; with flowery sprays Her skull is wreathed artistically, and sways, Feeble and weak, on her frail vertebrae. O charm of nothing decked in folly! they Who laugh and name you a Caricature, They see not, they whom flesh and blood allure, The nameless grace of every bleached, bare bone, That is most dear to me, tall skeleton! Come you to trouble with your potent sneer The feast of Life! or are you driven here, To Pleasure's Sabbath, by dead lusts that stir And goad your moving corpse on with a spur? Or do you hope, when sing the violins, And the pale candle-flame lights up our sins, To drive some mocking nightmare far apart, And cool the flame hell lighted in your heart? Fathomless well of fault and foolishness! Eternal alembic of antique distress! Still o'er the curved, white trellis of your sides The sateless, wandering serpent curls and glides. And truth to tell, I fear lest you should find, Among us here, no lover to your mind; Which of these hearts beat for the smile you gave? The charms of horror please none but the brave. Your eyes' black gulf, where awful broodings stir, Brings giddiness; the prudent reveller Sees, while a horror grips him from beneath, The eternal smile of thirty-two white teeth. For he who has not folded in his arms A skeleton, nor fed on graveyard charms, Recks not of furbelow, or paint, or scent, When Horror comes the way that Beauty went. O irresistible, with fleshless face, Say to these dancers in their dazzled race: "Proud lovers with the paint above your bones, Ye shall taste death, musk scented skeletons! Withered Antinoüs, dandies with plump faces, Ye varnished cadavers, and grey Lovelaces, Ye go to lands unknown and void of breath, Drawn by the rumour of the Dance of Death. From Seine's cold quays to Ganges' burning stream, The mortal troupes dance onward in a dream; They do not see, within the opened sky, The Angel's sinister trumpet raised on high. In every clime and under every sun, Death laughs at ye, mad mortals, as ye run; And oft perfumes herself with myrrh, like ye And mingles with your madness, irony! A gloriously elegant representation of Lady Death. Dry, bone-white orris, black musk, serpentine patchouli and our murkiest myrrh.

Considered a great honor, this is one of the most distinguished aspects of New Orleans culture. Its roots lie in the customs of the Dahomeans and Yoruba people, and is a celebration of both the person's life and the beauty and solemnity of their death. The procession is lead by the Grand Marshal, resplendent in his black tuxedo, white gloves and black hat in hand; almost a vision of the great Baron Samedi himself. The music begins with solemn, tolling dirges, moves into hymns of sorrow, loss and redemption. When the burial site is reached, a two-note preparatory riff is sounded, and the drummers start the second-line beat, heralding the switch in music to joyous, upbeat songs, dancing, and the unfurling of richly decorated umbrellas by the "second line": friends, family, loved ones and stray celebrants. Strutting, bouncing, and festive dance accompanies the upbeat ragtime music that sends the departed soul onto its next journey. Bittersweet bay rum, bourbon, and a host of funeral flowers with a touch of graveyard dirt, magnolia and Spanish Moss.

An olfactory serenede. A somber, contemplative scent — dreamy and subdued. Deepest violet touched with lilac and tuberose.

An enigmatic, otherworldly scent, brimming with power and mystery. Lavender and jasmine, with a touch of glowing honeysuckle.

Dried roses, rose leaf, Spanish moss, oakmoss and deep brown earth.

Tea leaf with three mosses, green grass, a medley of herbal notes, and a drop of ginger and fig.

Orchid, white musk, and bergamot wafting over juniper berries, with a gentle touch of soft, earthy patchouli.

Eternal desire, unquenchable passion: red musk, cocoa absolute, Nepalese amber, red sandalwood, aged patchouli, nicotiana, and blood wine.

Kokoro no oni ga mi wo semeru. The body is tortured only by the demon of the heart. Nepal poppy, lotus root, wild rose, and blue hibiscus with blackberry, tonka, sage, lavender, peony and vetiver.

Bad luck has come to stay Trouble never end My man has gone away With a girl I thought was my friend I'm worried down with care Lordy, can't you hear my prayer

Lady Luck, Lady Luck Won't you please smile down on me There's the time, friend of mine I need your sympathy I've got a horseshoe on my door I've knocked on wood till my hands are sore Since my man's done turned me loose I've got those Lady Luck blues, I mean I've got those Lady Luck blues

Lady Luck, Lady Luck Won't you please smile down on me There's the time, friend of mine I need your sympathy I've got his picture turned upside down I've sprinkled goofer dust all around Since my man is gone I'm all confused I've got those Lady Luck blues Find my good man I've got those Lady Luck blues

Lady Luck Blues, © 1923 William Weber & Clarence Williams. Recorded by Sidney Bechet, Bessie Smith, Mamie Smith, and the Clarence Williams Orchestra.

Lady Luck, please smile down on me. A melancholy scent, aching with longing, created to appease Fickle Fortune. Honeyed Bulgarian rose, vanilla flower, benzoin, tonka, black plum, peony, and iris.

A scent of transformation.

He who desires to become an oborot, let him seek in the forest a hewn-down tree; let him stab it with a small copper knife, and walk round the tree, repeating the following incantation:

On the sea, on the ocean, on the island, on Bujan, On the empty pasture gleams the moon, on an ashstock lying In a green wood, in a gloomy vale. Towards the stock wandereth a shaggy wolf, Horned cattle seeking for his sharp white fangs; But the wolf enters not the forest, But the wolf dives not into the shadowy vale, Moon, moon, gold-horned moon, Check the flight of bullets, blunt the hunters' knives, Break the shepherds' cudgels, Cast wild fear upon all cattle, On men, all creeping things, That they may not catch the grey wolf, That they may not rend his warm skin! My word is binding, more binding than sleep, More binding than the promise of a hero!

Then he springs thrice over the tree and runs into the forest, transformed into a wolf.

Balkan fir sap, dark mosses, Greek Mountain tea flower, black pine, salty ocean spray, deep black earth, and a moon-touched magickal incense of sandarac, frankincense, and ravensara.

Green, in the wizard arms Of the foam-bearded Atlantic, An isle of old enchantment, A melancholy isle, Enchanted and dreaming lies; And there, by Shannon's flowing, In the moonlight, spectre-thin, The spectre Erin sits.

An aged desolation, She sits by old Shannon's flowing, A mother of many children, Of children exiled and dead, In her home, with bent head, homeless, Clasping her knees she sits, Keening, keening!

And at her keen the fairy-grass Trembles on dun and barrow; Around the foot of her ancient crosses The grave-grass shakes and the nettle swings; In haunted glens the meadow-sweet Flings to the night wind Her mystic mournful perfume; The sad spearmint by holy wells Breathes melancholy balm. Sometimes she lifts her head, With blue eyes tearless, And gazes athwart the reek of night Upon things long past, Upon things to come.

And sometimes, when the moon Brings tempest upon the deep, The roused Atlantic thunders from his caverns in the west, The wolfhound at her feet Springs up with a mighty bay, And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side, Strung from the hearts of poets; And she flies on the wings of tempest With grey hair streaming: A meteor of evil omen, The spectre of hope forlorn, Keening, keening!

She keens, and the strings of her wild harp shiver On the gusts of night: O'er the four waters she keens-over Moyle she keens, O'er the Sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow, And the Ocean of Columbus.

And the Fianna hear, and the ghosts of her cloudy hovering heroes; And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters of Inisfail, Chanting her song of destiny, The rune of weaving Fates. And the nations hear in the void and quaking time of night, Sad unto dawning, dirges, Solemn dirges, And snatches of bardic song; Their souls quake in the void and quaking time of night, And they dream of the weird of kings, And tyrannies moulting, sick, In the dreadful wind of change.

Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles, wail no more, Banshee of the world-no more! The sorrows are the world's, though art no more alone; Thy wrongs, the world's.

Moonlight over grave grass, meadowsweet, marsh hellebore, rock sea-lavender, Irish Lady's-tresses, melancholy thistle, and wood bitter-vetch, with the scent of autumn fires in the distance, sprayed by wind howling over the Atlantic.

This is the scent of a summer storm: thick black clouds pass over this full moon, the Goddess roars, and Her Beloved hurls his forked bolts of lightning in the distant sky. Ozone deepened by liquid amber, and a spray of hot nighttime rain mingled with the scent of lightning-struck wood, water-soaked summer blooms, and sun-scorched grass.

The amber necklace of Freyja, Norse Goddess of Love, Sex, Attraction and Fruitfulness. Her magnificent necklace was bough from four Dwarves [Alfrik, Berling, Dvalin and Grer] at the price of four nights of her passion. When Brisingamen graces your throat, no man can resist your charms. A glittering mantle of rich golden notes: five ambers, soft myrtle and apple blossom, myrtle, and carnation.

Evokes sheer, unadulterated carnal lust. An undeniably warm and sensual scent. Black narcissus, orange blossoms, and vanilla.

The Sleeping Beauty. A gentle, lovely scent, slightly soporific, but beautiful in its quiet repose. Plumeria and white pear, Damascus rose, tuberose, magnolia and evening dew.

When, as by glaciers ground, the spate Swells hissing from beneath, The water of your mouth, elate, Rises between your teeth — It seems some old Bohemian vintage Triumphant, fierce, and tart, A liquid heaven that showers a mintage Of stars across my heart. A sinister, darkly seductive scent inspired by poetry of Charles Baudelaire. Violet entwined with vanilla and gardenia.

Bright, sweet and youthful, but swelling with a poisonous sexuality. Glittering heliotrope, honeysuckle, orange blossom and lemon verbena.

And when a convenient day was come, that Herod on his birthday made a supper to his lords, high captains, and chief estates of Galilee; And when the daughter of the said Herodias came in, and danced, and pleased Herod and them that sat with him, the king said unto the damsel, Ask of me whatsoever thou wilt, and I will give it thee. And he sware unto her, Whatsoever thou shalt ask of me, I will give it thee, unto the half of my kingdom. And she went forth, and said unto her mother, What shall I ask? And she said, The head of John the Baptist. And she came in straightway with haste unto the king, and asked, saying, I will that thou give me by and by in a charger the head of John the Baptist. And the king was exceeding sorry; yet for his oath's sake, and for their sakes which sat with him, he would not reject her. And immediately the king sent an executioner, and commanded his head to be brought: and he went and beheaded him in the prison, and brought his head in a charger, and gave it to the damsel: and the damsel gave it to her mother. And when his disciples heard of it, they came and took up his corpse, and laid it in a tomb. A scent that is both coquettish and sinister. Exotic and lush, brimming with grace and viciousness: almond with star jasmine, oakmoss, red sandalwood and Egyptian musk.

Unrestrained revelry, unchained licentiousness! Violet deepened with vetiver.

Strange goddess, brown as evening to the sight, Whose scent is half of musk, half of havanah, Work of some obi, Faust of the Savanah, Ebony witch, and daughter of the night. By far preferred to troth, or opium, or sleep, Love vaunts the red elixir of your mouth. My caravan of longings seeks in drouth Your eyes, the wells at which my cares drink deep. Through those black eyes, by which your soul respires, Pitiless demon! pour less scorching fires. I am no Styx nine times with flame to wed. Nor can I turn myself to Proserpine To break your spell, Megera libertine! Within the dark inferno of your bed. A pounding heartbeat coalesced into scent: demonic passion and brutal sexuality manifested through myrrh, red patchouli, cognac, honey, and tuberose and geranium in a breathy, panting veil over the darkest body musk.

Perfectly enchanting! An irresistibly sexual, utterly rapturous blend of three roses, radiant amber, and sensual red musk.

Bat-winged, flame-eyed, and possessed of an unearthly, perfect beauty: the Daughters of Lilith, the Succubi, invade the dreams of men and lie with them in rapturous, unholy sexual union. The scent of their skin is bittersweet, dusky and terminally seductive. Mimosa, orange blossom, neroli and bergamot with a drop of sweet clove.

Three white cakes, vanilla, and red and black currants. BPAL's Eat Me is not for eating. Please use common sense, and remember: perfume oils are for external use only.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" Bandersnatch musk, redolent of spicy carnations, wild plums and chrysanthemum.

And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Come whiffing through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! An earthy yet buoyant scent: pine, eucalyptus and orange.

I couldn't afford to learn it.' said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. 'I only took the regular course.' 'What was that?' inquired Alice. 'Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with,' the Mock Turtle replied; 'and then the different branches of Arithmetic— Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision.'

Not quite Turtle Soup: blurry aquatic notes, with a confusing, contrary splort of iris, ambrette, green apple, vodka, white mint and a squish of lime.

A sea of salty tears drowning out Alice's light floral perfume.

A feisty bouquet of golden, warm, gently honeyed lilies.

Also called Djinn's Eggs and the Weed of Ill Omen. Distinctive bifurcations shape this magickal plant into the form of human men and women. It is believed that mandrake grows where the semen of a hanged man has fallen onto the earth, and that when it is plucked from the earth, the plant itself shrieks in agony: Alack, alack, is it not like that I, So early waking, what with loathsome smells, And shrieks like mandrakes' torn out of the earth That living mortals, hearing them, run mad. A plant of true arcane power, mandrake has been used in a multitude of ways by witches, magicians and thaumaturgists for eons to many, many vastly different ends. Whole pieces are carried for protection, or are used in poppet magick. Ground herb can be utilized in spells for money, lust or defense. The lore of the mandrake does not limit it to magickal use. The root was chewed as a simple anasthesia, and it has been widely employed as a sleep drug: CLEOPATRA: Ha, ha! Give me to drink mandragora. CHARMIAN: Why, madam? CLEOPATRA: That I might sleep out this great gap of time My Antony is away.

A glorious parasite! Once the seeds of the Strangler Fig find root in the bark of a tree, snakelike roots erupt and reach graspingly at the sky. The Strangler Fig then sprouts numerous epiphytic vines that strangles and surrounds its unwilling host, and finally snuffs the life from it. Rooty, woody, with deep green tones.

And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer. Nobility and haughtiness befitting the Antichrist: sage, carnation and cedar with lavender, vanilla, white musk and leather.

Green herbs slithering through mint, lime and lavender.

Salvation found in darkness beyond darkness, the blessed sleep of nothingness.

Dark musk, wood spice, labdanum, patchouli, dark African woods, and saffron.

Smell sanctified! A blend of pure, pious frankincense and graceful myrrh.

And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, Come and see. And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand. Thin, dark, and shadowed. A scent that offers no sustenance, comfort or satiety: lemon peel, white sage, frankincense, lavender fougere, sandalwood, vetiver and labdanum.

Thouroughly corrupted: amber, sandalwood, black patchouli and cinnamon.

A scent aflame with rage, swirling in the red haze of hatred: dragon's blood spiked with black pepper, clove, and cinnamon.

Dream Formula III. For use when working with the many Gods of Sleep, Dreams, and Nightmares.

As if the name didn't spell it out for you. This blend relieves all sexual inhibitions by simultaneously relaxing and arousing.

A gentle, healing love blend, often used to help mend a broken heart. Brings peace of mind, soothes the sting of loss, and aids in finding closure.

One of the Biblical Cities on the Plain, destroyed by God with fire and brimstone because of its people's pride, prosperous ease, deceit, hedonism and indolence, and their callous, uncharitable hearts. A gritty, sordid and languid scent: ripe fig, date and currant with black herbs.

The scent of sacred incense swirling up the steep slopes to Swayambhunath Stupa. Saffron, blessed sandalwood, Himalayan cedar and the miraculous lotus of the Buddha with chiuri bark and Nepalese spices.

Venerable Victorian Tea Rose… twisted, blackened and emboldened with wickedness.

Dark, decadent and incomparably exotic: the rich scent of buttered rum flavored with almond, bay, clove and sassafras.

Twin islands near Newfoundland, now lost, that were believed to be gateways to Hell. The scent is of wet, dark greenery, carnivorous flowers, volcanic gas, and the hot black musk of the demons and wild beasts that populated the islands.

Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon them and bringing out all the glorious colours of this beautiful range, deep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown where grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and pointed crags, till these were themselves lost in the distance, where the snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed mighty rifts in the mountains, through which, as the sun began to sink, we saw now and again the white gleam of falling water. One of my companions touched my arm as we swept round the base of a hill and opened up the lofty, snow-covered peak of a mountain, which seemed, as we wound on our serpentine way, to be right before us.

Mountain air and the scent of crisp snow blanketing the mountain's flora: Scottish fir, beech, cembra and mugho pine, rhododendron, currant, honeysuckle, raspberry leaf, dwarf juniper, sedge, meadow grass, snowdrop, rose bay, lily of the valley, starwort, lichen and mosses.

"My friend. — Welcome to the Carpathians. I am anxiously expecting you. Sleep well tonight. At three tomorrow the diligence will start for Bukovina; a place on it is kept for you. At the Borgo Pass my carriage will await you and will bring you to me. I trust that your journey from London has been a happy one, and that you will enjoy your stay in my beautiful land. —Your friend, Dracula."

Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow. Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confession, The troubled sky reveals The grief it feels. This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whispered and revealed To wood and field. The radiance and desolation of winter.

I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-gray, And Winter's dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land's sharp features seemed to be The Century's corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fevourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware. The hope of springtime penetrating winter darkness. Snow, darkness, and icy air illuminated by the thrush's song: warm amber, soft orris, and melancholy violet.

Supports psychic health and strengthens the astral body! Dissolves and expels telepathic blockage!

Every medium should have it! Use before every séance!

Poppy flowers, acai berry, and honey.