Of Herbert West, who was my friend in college and in after life, I can speak only with extreme terror. This terror is not due altogether to the sinister manner of his recent disappearance, but was engendered by the whole nature of his life-work, and first gained its acute form more than seventeen years ago, when we were in the third year of our course at the Miskatonic University Medical School in Arkham. While he was with me, the wonder and diabolism of his experiments fascinated me utterly, and I was his closest companion. Now that he is gone and the spell is broken, the actual fear is greater. Memories and possibilities are ever more hideous than realities.

Aftershave, embalming fluid, and splatterings from a panoply of reanimation reagents.

...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.

A venerable New England university, whose vast library holds many rare, diabolical and obscure arcane works, including one of the few surviving legitimate copies of the Necronomicon. Home to innumerable scholars of the esoteric and the occult, and the notorious Dr. Herbert West. The scent of Irish coffee, dusty tomes and polished oakwood halls.

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.

Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn. The sunken city of the Great God Cthulhu. A hellishly dark aquatic scent, evocative of fathomless oceanic deeps, the mysteries of madness buried under crushing black waters, and the brooding eternal evil that lies beneath the waves.

A name synonymous with seduction and licentiousness. From childhood aspirations of seclusion and priesthood came Giacomo Casanova, the self-styled Chevalier de Seingalt, the most notorious debauchee and playboy of all time. His memoirs, Histoire de Ma Vie, enflamed the Enlightenment with scandal and tales of sexual conquest. His restless nature and flair for sensationalizing his adventures drew him into and out of fortune, through numerous careers and affairs, and led him into a brief altercation with the Inquisition and a conviction on the charge of witchcraft. Though he had a life rife with drama and intrigue, he died peacefully at the age of 73, librarian to the Count of Waldstein. Who says librarians can't be sexy? A rakish blend of leather, anise, lavender, bergamot and amber with tonka, lemon peel and lusty patchouli.

A salacious, lecherous, leering scent - dirty and dark, slapped with a wet sweetness. Earthy black patchouli swelling with apricot.

Insatiable lust, unending vigor! A truly carnal, energetic men's blend: vanilla and amber with juniper, rosewood and white pine.

My well-beloved was stripped. Knowing my whim, She wore her tinkling gems, but naught besides: And showed such pride as, while her luck betides, A sultan's favored slave may show to him. When it lets off its lively, crackling sound, This blazing blend of metal crossed with stone Gives me an ecstasy I've only known Where league of sound and lustre can be found. She let herself be loved: then, drowsy-eyed, Smiled down from her high couch in languid ease. My love was deep and gentle as the seas And rose to her as to a cliff the tide. My own approval of each dreamy pose, Like a tamed tiger, cunningly she sighted: And candour, with lubricity united, Gave piquancy to every one she chose. Her limbs and hips, burnished with changing lustres Before my eyes, clairvoyant and serene, Swanned themselves, undulating in their sheen; Her breasts and belly, of my vine the clusters, Like evil angels rose, my fancy twitting, To kill the peace which over me she'd thrown, And to disturb her from the crystal throne Where, calm and solitary, she was sitting. So swerved her pelvis that, in one design, Antiope's white rump it seemed to graft To a boy's torso, merging fore and aft. The talc on her brown tan seemed half-divine. The lamp resigned its dying flame. Within, The hearth alone lit up the darkened air, And every time it sighed a crimson flare It drowned in blood that amber-coloured skin.

Skin musk and honey, blood-red rose, orange blossom, white peach, red apple, frankincense and myrrh.

A gentle vision of purity, goodness and virtue: white tea, carnation and Damask Rose.

The scent of sexual obsession, slavery to sensual pleasure, and the undercurrent of innocence defiled utterly. Amber and honey with a touch of vanilla.

Black tobacco, oakmoss, vanilla bean and smoky sweet coconut with a burst of thin white wine.

A woman of exquisite, unearthly beauty, profound intelligence, wit, and exceeding wealth, the Queen of Sheba – called Bilquis by the Muslims and Makeda by the ancient Abysinnians – traveled by caravan to Solomon's realm seeking proof of the king's reputed wisdom. Bearing gifts of exotic spices, a veritable mountain of gold, hearty camels and precious stones, she presented herself to the king and, bearing her heart to him, asked him a series of challenging questions, and was ultimately convinced of the truth of his wisdom, knowledge and judiciousness. In the end, the great king and queen conquered each other's hearts and fell breathlessly in love: the perfect marriage of equals. Her scent is a bounty of golden honeyed almonds and a whisper of African and Middle Eastern spices.

By far, our most popular scent! Magnetic, mysterious, and exceedingly sexual in nature. A blend of exotic Indonesian oils sugared with vanilla.

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

The dry, thin scent of a draconic ossuary. Dragon's blood resin with white sandalwood, dusty orris and crisp blondewood.

Smooth, polished and lethally sharp: dragon's blood resin and three sandalwoods.

A piercing, radiant perfume: dragon's blood resin, lily of the valley, lilac and galbanum.

Flame-kissed, warm, smooth, and highly protective. Dragon's blood, leather and a hint of smoke.

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

Dominant, passionate, devastating. Dragon's blood and five deep musks.

Opium-laced dreams of flame, plunder, power and fury: dragon's blood resin, poppy, amber and ylang ylang.

The hundred-headed dragon that guards the garden of the Hesperides: dragon's blood resin, golden apple, apple blossom, white musk and hyacinth.

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.

A mournful, poignant scent, thick with foreboding. Soft golden amber darkened with a touch of murky black musk.

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.

The Hebrew Underworld, the Abode of the Dead, the Pit. It is as forbidding as the grave itself: a joyless and dolorous cave deep with the bowels of Earth that every man, saint or sinner, must travel to upon death, where his soul finds rest in the silence and dust. For the living know that they will die, but the dead don't know anything, neither do they have any more a reward; for the memory of them is forgotten. Also their love, their hatred, and their envy has perished long ago; neither have they any more a portion forever in anything that is done under the sun. Go your way—eat your bread with joy, and drink your wine with a merry heart; for God has already accepted your works. Let your garments be always white, and don't let your head lack oil. Live joyfully with the wife whom you love all the days of your life of vanity, which he has given you under the sun, all your days of vanity: for that is your portion in life, and in your labor in which you labor under the sun. Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with your might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in Sheol, where you are going. Ecclesiastes 9:5 - 10 The final burst of the soul's light and joy before passing into the depths of the earth, and into the cords of Sheol; Sheol, who is never satisfied, and who makes wide her soul to all. Vibrant gladiola, graceful stargazer lily, triumphant iris and bright heliotrope flare, and is finally made somber by heavy copal, a drop of labdanum, and tonka.

Volcanic ash and Easter Island palm.

Black coconut, black musk, lemon blossom, and ironwood bark.

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!

True, perfect golden light, refined into an incomparably glorious scent.

Deep, luscious green and berry scents that evoke images of woodland witchcraft and the raw power of nature: blackberry, sage, green tea, wild berries and dark musk.

Say that the men of the old black tower,
Though they but feed as the goatherd feeds,
Their money spent, their wine gone sour,
Lack nothing that a soldier needs,
That all are oath-bound men:
Those banners come not in.

There in the tomb stand the dead upright,
But winds come up from the shore:
They shake when the winds roar,
Old bones upon the mountain shake.

Those banners come to bribe or threaten,
Or whisper that a man's a fool
Who, when his own right king's forgotten,
Cares what king sets up his rule.
If he died long ago
Why do you dread us so?

There in the tomb drops the faint moonlight,
But wind comes up from the shore:
They shake when the winds roar,
Old bones upon the mountain shake.

The tower's old cook that must climb and clamber
Catching small birds in the dew of the morn
When we hale men lie stretched in slumber
Swears that he hears the king's great horn.
But he's a lying hound:
Stand we on guard oath-bound!

There in the tomb the dark grows blacker,
But wind comes up from the shore:
They shake when the winds roar,
Old bones upon the mountain shake.

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

A sepulchral, desolate scent. Long-dead soldiers, oath-bound; the perfume of their armor, the chill wind that surges through their tower, white bone and blackened steel: white sandalwood, ambergris, wet ozone, galbanum and leather with ebony, teak, burnt grasses, English ivy and a hint of red wine.

Slivers of warm, pulsating blood forever crystallized in golden amber resin.

John Dee: master of science, alchemy and magic, Hermetic philosopher in the schools of Rosicrucian Christian Mysticism and Platonic-Pythagorean doctrine, and Queen Elizabeth's astrologer, advisor, cryptologist and spy. With Edward Kelly, he created a field of study and work in Angelic Evocation, and isolated the Angelic language: Enochian. His scent is soft English leather, rosewood and tonka with a hint of incense, parchment and soft woods.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.


Through sunlit caves of ice, roses unfurl amidst dancing waves of serpentine opium smoke and amber tobacco, golden sandalwood, champaca, tea leaf, sugared lily, ginger, rich hay absolute, leather, dark vanilla, mandarin, peru balsam, and Moroccan jasmine.

Lightning slashing the midnight skies over the endless reaches of the ocean. The electric tang of ozone, marine notes, and a drop of sharp rain.

An agricultural gargoyle. Though he is the Guardian of the Crops and Keeper of the Fields, his visage is still the stuff of nightmares. The scent of a hot wind blowing through desolate, scorched, barren fields.

One can even set up quite ridiculous cases. A cat is penned up in a steel chamber, along with the following diabolical device (which must be secured against direct interference by the cat): in a Geiger counter there is a tiny bit of radioactive substance, so small that perhaps in the course of one hour one of the atoms decays, but also, with equal probability, perhaps none; if it happens, the counter tube discharges and through a relay releases a hammer which shatters a small flask of hydrocyanic acid. If one has left this entire system to itself for an hour, one would say that the cat still lives if meanwhile no atom has decayed. The first atomic decay would have poisoned it. The Psi function for the entire system would express this by having in it the living and the dead cat (pardon the expression) mixed or smeared out in equal parts. It is typical of these cases that an indeterminacy originally restricted to the atomic domain becomes transformed into macroscopic indeterminacy, which can then be resolved by direct observation. That prevents us from so naively accepting as valid a "blurred model" for representing reality. In itself it would not embody anything unclear or contradictory. There is a difference between a shaky or out-of-focus photograph and a snapshot of clouds and fog banks.

No cats were mistreated during the formulation of this paradox, or in the process of creating this perfume.

A paradoxical scent experiment! - tangerine, sugared lime, pink grapefruit, oakmoss, lavender, zdravetz, and chocolate peppermint.

Fig, dark myrrh, amber, redwood, nutmeg, tarragon, black musk, and sweet orange.

Amber, cream accord, white honey, apple blossom, skin musk, caramel, and teak.

Babylonian musk, vanilla tea, tonka, tobacco, coconut, hyssop, and lilac.

Honey, ambergris, neroli, white peach, patchouli, and cocoa absolute.

A colorless woman bursts from an elaborate gold and ruby tent and faints dead at your feet. Soft laughter emits from the dark entrance to the tent, and the scent of musk, black fruits and incense touches your senses. Looking up, you see that the sign hovering above the unconscious woman is adorned with images of the Major Arcana's Tower and reads: "Mme. Moriarty, Misfortune Teller. No fate too grim, no future too bleak." A tiny woman with floor-length black dreadlocks walks out of the tent, stepping over the prone body. She is clothed in deep red wrappings, and is bedecked in golden ornaments bearing alchemical symbols and charms representing eternity, chance, and wisdom. She pauses, looks you over slowly, and then flicks a tarot card at your feet. Red musk, vanilla bean, pomegranate, patchouli leaf and wild plum.

Snake Oil with red mandarin, myrrh, and almond.

Snake Oil with acai berry, amber, cardamom, neroli, and smoked vanilla.

Snake Oil with oakmoss, sea moss, and olive leaf.

Snake Oil with cocoa, teakwood, and rice milk.

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

Snake Oil with linden blossom, calla lily, passion flower, and narcissus.

Snake Oil with vetiver, black coconut, vanilla, and opoponax.

Snake Oil with four mints, bergamot, and green tea.

Snake Oil with ho wood, teak, black musk, and bamboo.

Snake Oil with orris, frankincense, and copal.

Snake Oil with sugar cane, frankincense, champaca, opoponax, labdanum, and hyssop.

Snake Oil with leather, tonka bean, red sandalwood, and sage.

No single thing holds secrets so well as one's shroud.

Rotting linen, white sandalwood, hyssop, and dust.

True, without error, certain and most true.

Rosicrucian incense.

But, which saint's remains does this vessel hold?

Ethiopian myrrh, Damascus rose, boswellia, galbanum, and copal.

I dare not open this scroll. Temptation is the plague of men's spirits.

Parchment, Siamese benzoin, infernal incense, red musk, brimstone, and daemonorops.

Could this contain the secret of eternal life?

Golden amber, blood orange, ambergris, lilac, frankincense, and agarwood.

Named in honor of Vlad III, Tepes, of the Order of the Dragon. Black musk, tobacco, fir, balsam of peru, cumin, bitter clove, crushed mint, and orange blossom.

The raw, untamable power of chaos. Rosewood, amber, red musk and a dribble of red sandalwood.

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.

The wild, untamed essence of lycanthropy. Primeval in its raw power and insatiable hunger: juniper, cypress and galangal with the barest touch of eucalyptus.

Splendour.

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

Bast, Ubasti, Ailuros, Ba-en-Aset. Represented as both a domestic cat and a fierce lioness, she truly evidences traits of both. She is the Mother of All Cats, Goddess of Sensuality, Fertility, and a guardian and protector of women. She is also one of the Eyes of Ra, and in that aspect is an Avenging Goddess, seeking retribution and punishing enemies of her people.

Luxuriant amber, warm Egyptian musk, fierce saffron and soft myrrh, almond, cardamom and golden lotus.

The Four Hundred divine rabbits of the Aztec pantheon that preside over parties and drunkenness.

Bittersweet Mexican cocoa with rum, red wine, and a scent redolent of sacrificial blood.

The Native American Creator / Trickster God of Chaos and Change. The warmth of doeskin, dry plains grasses and soft, dusty woods warmed by amber and a downy, gentle coat of deep musk.

The Basque God of Night and all the perils of the darkness. Though he is the God of the Danger that Lurks in the Gloom, he is kind to men and warns them against the nighttime hazards and sets rules of conduct for both the living and the dead as they travel through his domain. It is said that since the warm, vibrant daylight is for the living, the abodes of night are reserved for the dead. All who heed his counsel are protected, but woe be to any man that disobeys the laws of Gaueko: he is swift to punish those that would scorn his advice.

The Goddess of Persuasion, Seduction and Sexual Wiles. A member of Aphrodite's retinue, she is also Aphrodite's daughter and sister to Tyche and Eunomia. Lusty myrtle and jasmine with red sandalwood, stargazer lily, and clove over an opulent, rich bed of warm musk and bourbon vanilla.

The Wrath of God, the Most Beautiful Lord of Lightning, the Owner of All Palaces. He is the illumination of a lightning strike in the night sky, and is the retributive strike of the rightful king. Shango punishes those who are not living up to their responsibilities. He gives insight to the truth in all circumstances, and is the essence of the thrill and excitement in life that makes every day worth living. To love Shango is to live life to the fullest, no matter what pains the world inflicts upon you. He is Wrath, and his lightning bolts and gouts of fire remind all of his strength and power. It is said that Lord Shango only speaks to his children once; when the God illuminates an answer for you, you had best understand with no further questions. Shango is trial by fire, the honing and refinement of the spirit, the ability to distinguish between truth and lies. He is a dual-faced God: King and Exile, miser and philanthropist, just and ruthless, honest and devious. Shango is the Lord of Persuasion, and his glib tongue can intimidate, coerce, sway and seduce. He is quick wit, articulate words, and the ability to think on one's feet. He is the King that can incite and enflame the masses with the power of his speech. His words are the sensual murmurs of the lothario, the slick wheedle of the grifter, the convincing argument of the barrister, the dangerous charm of the pimp, the inspiration of the warrior general, and the invigorating exhortations of the monarch. The Roar of Shango is a Universal Truth. Shango governs all professions that cater to the needs and weaknesses of the people. He is the absolute and perfect Male creature, and the rain that falls to earth is His blessed, sublime semen, giving life to the world. His abundant seed washes the land and replenishes Earth's seas, rivers and oceans. He sneers at cowardice, and demands that all of his children have daring spirits, strength of will, nerve and balls. Courage is of the utmost importance, as it empowers us to face adversity with dignity and enables us to act decisively and with resourcefulness. Live, don't simply exist. Shango's gifts make it possible for us to find the shortest distance between two points, wring out the best from every situation, recover from every seeming loss and every defeat, and defy all odds to reach our goals. He teaches us wily strategies, masterful tactics, and shows us the value of friendship and camaraderie. His is the comfortable, casual friendship found in just hanging out and having a good time with the guys. Shango is Challenge, the concept of finding the best parts of yourself through conflict and adversity. Shango's weapon is the double-headed axe, and His animals are the black cat and the leopard. The Master of Lightning's ofrenda contains red apples, banana, chili pepper, coconut, pineapple, pomegranate and sugar cane.

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.

Fate. Muscadine, black and red patchouli, cereus and nag champa.

Necessity. Deep herbs and apple with black amber.

A mechanical construct: illustrating strong work ethic, determination, creativity, and innovation.

Copper gears, brass cogs, fused wiring, scorched iron, and motor oil.

Avast thar! On Octobree th' 31st, Pirate Moon be hangin' high in th' sky! Mad Bess Moriarty, Scourge oth' Seen Seas, an' Captain T.J. Barrial wi' be joinin' the'r spirits in unholy matrimony! This scent be created t' commemorate th' union o' these two scurrilous sea dogs.

So, splice th' mainbrace an' get thee loaded t' th' gunwales, me buckos, 'tis a time o' celebration!

Red musk, ambergris, coconut palm, red sandalwood, balsam, date, warm leather, tobacco, ebony, lingum vitae wood, pandanus grass, an' a touch o' lime.

This naval galleon was boarded and commandeered in 1713 on the order of Mad Bess Moriarty, along with a fat fleet of ships bearing precious oils, rare resins, and exotic spices. Once the vessels were secured, Mad Bess selected the finest, fittest galleon from the ships that they had acquired, and chose it to be her flagship. Her crew set to work knocking down the cabins, making the ship flush fore and aft, and painting her low sides were painted black, with one thin riband of orange. They prepared black colors, and set bloodshot, glaring occuli along the entirety of the hull. A new figurehead was carved in the shape of a flame-wreathed, screaming bird, and the ship was sanctified with wine, rum, and the blood of their enemies.

Mounted with 52 guns, and manned with the fiercest pirates to sail the Seven Seas, she was rechristened "the Phoenix".

Sea air, gunpowder, lime, salt-crusted wood, a splash of blood, and a dribble of Snake Oil.

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

Dark musk and black amber with frankincense, red sandalwood, neroli and bergamot.

Before we go any further, we present a scent whose proceeds support the work of the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund:

413 U.S. 15 / Miller Vs California

In 1974, a court ruling established a litmus test for obscenity in the United States. Does the First Amendment protect dirty birds? Yes, and no; it depends on where you are and what your neighbors perceive as naughty. The Court's majority opinion stated that material could only be defined as obscene if

"(a) the average person, applying contemporary community standards, would find that the work, taken as a whole, appeals to the prurient interest; and the work depicts or describes, in a patently offensive way, sexual conduct specifically defined by the applicable state law; and (c) the work, taken as a whole, lacks serious literary, artistic, political, or scientific value"

If all three conditions are satisfied, voilà! - your work is obscene.

But is it art?

Although a work considered to have literary, artistic, political, or scientific value cannot, in theory, constitutionally be found to be obscene regardless of whether it appeals to prurient interest or is patently offensive, the question lies in how we can possibly determine with certainty whether or not a film, photograph, tale, or limerick has social value when philosophical and moral compasses vary so wildly from person to person and community to community.

Is a perfume inspired by an 18th Century painting of a dildo obscene?

What would your friends and neighbors say?

Leather, cognac, fig, ripe berry, and cream, stuffed into a plain brown paper bag.

Based on a venerable French pontifical incense blend: monastic frankincense and myrrh, Damascus rose, Russian gardenia, cassia, and lily of the valley wafting on a chill Autumn wind. A celebration of the glory and suffering of the saints and matryrs of the Church.

Really ridiculous, insanely inappropriate, and staggeringly silly! Cranky groundhog musk sweetened up by chocolate-covered black cherries, cardamom, French vanilla, and caramel.

I will wash my hands among the innocent; and will compass thy altar, O Lord: That I may hear the voice of thy praise: and tell of all thy wondrous works. I have loved, O Lord, the beauty of thy house; and the place where thy glory dwelleth. Take not away my soul, O God, with the wicked: nor my life with bloody men: In whose hands are iniquities: their right hand is filled with gifts.

But as for me, I have walked in my innocence: redeem me, and have mercy on me. My foot hath stood in the direct way: in the churches I will bless thee, O Lord. In Roman Catholic tradition, the Christmas season begins liturgically on Christmas Eve, though it is forbidden to celebrate the Christmas Mass before midnight. The most devout attend Midnight Mass, celebrating both the Eucharist and the drama of the Nativity.

This perfume is a traditional Roman Catholic sacramental incense, most often used during a Solemn Mass. Traditionally, five tears of this incense, each encased individually in wax that has been fashioned into the shape of a nail, are inserted into the paschal candle. This is, of course, represents the Five Wounds of Our Risen Savior. Symbolically, the burning of the incense signifies spiritual fervor, the fragrance itself inspires virtue, and the rising smoke carries our prayers to God.

Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, factorem caeli et terrae, visibilium omnium et invisibilium.

Et in unum Dominum Iesum Christum, Filium Dei unigenitum, et ex Patre natum ante omnia saecula. Deum de Deo, Lumen de Lumine, Deum verum de Deo vero, genitum non factum, consubstantialem Patri; per quem omnia facta sunt. Qui propter nos homines et propter nostram salutem descendit de caelis. Et incarnatus est de Spiritu Sancto ex Maria Virgine, et homo factus est. Crucifixus etiam pro nobis sub Pontio Pilato, passus et sepultus est, et resurrexit tertia die, secundum Scripturas, et ascendit in caelum, sedet ad dexteram Patris. Et iterum venturus est cum gloria, iudicare vivos et mortuos, cuius regni non erit finis.

Et in Spiritum Sanctum, Dominum et vivificantem, qui ex Patre procedit. Qui cum Patre et Filio simul adoratur et conglorificatur: qui locutus est per prophetas. Et unam, sanctam, catholicam et apostolicam Ecclesiam. Confiteor unum baptisma in remissionem peccatorum. Et expecto resurrectionem mortuorum, et vitam venturi saeculi. Amen.

Beckons all giant creatures from gargantuan reptiles and humongous moths! These babies are sure to crush everything from dollhouses to shopping malls! Can even be used to summon colossal robots in a pinch! A sweet and crisp vanilla mint!

Once upon a time, on a wild October night many years ago, a fair took place at Chiselborough. The men of the village of Hinton St. George made their way to the fair, and spent the night in revelry, drinking and carrying on, far into the darkest hours. Their wives grew concerned, and went looking for their unruly husbands. In order to see their way through the autumn gloom, they hollowed out mangel-wurzels and crafted them into makeshift lanterns. The drunken men, in their sloshy haze, saw the ghostly lights approaching, and believed them to be goolies – the furious spirits of unbaptized children. In terror, they fled in panic from their bemused, bewildered wives. To this day, that night of foolishness is still celebrated! This is a light-hearted scent: apple orchards, bright cranberries, and a touch of warm cider.

Porphyrogenitus, indeed; we worked for it! Not simply the color of royalty, purple is also the color of sorrow and mourning, reconciliation and forgiveness. A regal, majestic, and somber blend of myrrh, plum blossom, African violet, cognac, fig, orris, lilac, wisteria, black plum, and Burgundy wine grapes.

A tribute to the opium den cum bawdyhouses of Shanghai in the 1930's. Golden amber, blonde tobacco, Sudanese black coconut, rich caramel, black currant, white opium and delphinium laced with a sensual blend of Asian spice.

Truly the scent of autumn itself — damp woods, fir needle, and black patchouli with the gentlest touches of warm pumpkin, clove, nutmeg, allspice, sweet red apple and mullein.

Bat's Day exclusive, August 2007

Mine are the night and morning, The pits of air, the gulf of space, The sportive sun, the gibbous moon, The innumerable days.

I hid in the solar glory, I am dumb in the pealing song, I rest on the pitch of the torrent, In slumber I am strong.

Heliotrope, amber, almond flower, frangipani, cedar, and calamus.

13 is significant, whether you consider it lucky, unlucky or just plain odd. Many believe it to be unfortunate…

… because there were 13 present at the Last Supper. … Loki crashed a party of 12 at Valhalla, which ended in Baldur’s death. … Oinomaos killed 13 of Hippodamia’s suitors before Pelops finally, in his own shady way, defeated the jealous king. … In ancient Rome, Hecate’s witches gathered in groups of 12, the Goddess herself being the 13th in the coven.

Concern over the number thirteen echoes back beyond the Christian era. Line 13 was omitted form the Code of Hammurabi.

The shivers over Friday the 13th also have some interesting origins:

… Christ was allegedly crucified on Friday the 13th. … On Friday, October 13, 1307, King Philip IV of France ordered the arrests of Jaques de Molay, Grand Master of the Knights Templar, and sixty of his senior knights. … In British custom, hangings were held on Fridays, and there were 13 steps on the gallows leading to the noose.

To combat the superstition, Robert Ingersoll and the Thirteen Club held thirteen-men dinners during the 19th Century. Successful? Hardly. The number still invokes trepidation to this day. A recent whimsical little serial killer study showed that the following murderers all have names that total thirteen letters:

Theodore Bundy Jeffrey Dahmer Albert De Salvo John Wayne Gacy

And, with a little stretch of the imagination, you can also fit ‘Jack the Ripper’ and ‘Charles Manson’ into that equation.

More current-era paranoia: modern schoolchildren stop their memorization of the multiplication tables at 12. There were 13 Plutonium slugs in the atomic bomb that was dropped on Nagasaki. Apollo 13 wasn’t exactly the most successful space mission. All of these are things that modern triskaidekaphobes point to when justifying their fears.

For some, 13 is an extremely fortuitous and auspicious number…

… In Jewish tradition, God has 13 Attributes of Mercy. Also, there were 13 tribes of Israel, 13 principles of Jewish faith, and 13 is considered the age of maturity. … The ancient Egyptians believed that there were 12 stages of spiritual achievement in this lifetime, and a 13th beyond death. … The word for thirteen, in Chinese, sounds much like the word which means “must be alive”.

Thirteen, whether you love it or loathe it, is a pretty cool number all around.

… In some theories of relativity, there are 13 dimensions. … It is a prime number, lucky number, star number, Wilson Prime, and Fibonacci number. … There are 13 Archimedean solids.

AND… … There were 13 original colonies when the United States were founded.

Says a lot about the US, doesn’t it?

A base of cocoa absolute and white chocolate with thirteen baneful and beneficial bits including vanilla bean, white ginger, orchid, golden peach, massoia bark, clove, honey, and starfruit.

In our paean to all the mysteries surrounding this enigmatic number, there are thirteen lucky and unlucky components: cocoa and vanilla beans, Mysore sandalwood, star fruit, orange rind, red amber, fig leaf, mimosa, rooibos tea, bourbon geranium, rose otto, nutmeg, and lavender.

Cocoa and vanilla beans, Mysore sandalwood, star fruit, orange rind, red amber, fig leaf, mimosa, rooibos tea, bourbon geranium, rose otto, nutmeg, and lavender.

This is the final Full Moon of winter. The call of the crow signals the end of the frost, and their scent, of vervain, black violet, white musk, and Chinese cedar, is brushed by the last cold wind of winter on their wings, and the scent of evergreen boughs touched by the season’s final flowers and the first blossoms of spring: wintersweet, green-barked dogwood, primrose, snowdrop, and lenten rose hellebore bouquet.

As the winter encroaches, the time comes to embark on the last Great Hunts of the year. The deer are fattened, the fields have been reaped, and the light of the full moon illuminates the wild creatures that have come out to glean. This scent is redolent of night skies, falling leaves, and the high-pitched tension and release associated with the Hunt.

Dry leaves, autumn bonfires, blood red wine, feral, animalistic notes and the chill of approaching winter.

Hide this one night thy crescent, kindly Moon; So shall Endymion faithful prove, and rest Loving and unawakened on the breast; So shall no foul enchanter importune Thy quiet course; for now the night is boon, And through the friendly night unseen I fare, Who dread the face of foemen unaware, And watch of hostile spies in the bright noon. Thou knowest, Moon, the bitter power of Love; 'Tis told how shepherd Pan found ways to move, For little price, thy heart; and of your grace, Sweet stars, be kind to this not alien fire, Because on earth ye did not scorn desire, Bethink ye, now ye hold your heavenly place. Utterly ethereal, an exquisite expression of love: moonflower, lotus root, white gardenia, beeswax, peach blossom, blue musk, stargazer lily, golden osmanthus, ti, sandalwood, hyacinth, ylang ylang, and a touch of vanilla bean.

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.

Skoll the wolf who shall scare the Moon Till he flies to the Wood-of-Woe: Hati the wolf, Hridvitnir's kin, Who shall pursue the Sun.

January 2008.

Red musk, black currant, violet leaf, wild frankincense, lavender, black orchid, Darjeeling tea, vetiver, red moss, myrrh, Moroccan spices, blackened fruit gums, and tobacco.

Lycaon was the first king of Arcadia, and though his country prospered under his rule, he possessed a streak of viciousness that earned him the great god Zeus’ ire. Zeus had heard tales of Lycaon’s impiety and cruelty, and in order to find out the truth about the King of Arcadia, he disguised himself as a beggar and sought hospitality in the king’s court. Lycaon and his fifty equally sadistic sons discovered the identity of their guest, and foolishly served Zeus a meal of soup that contained sheep and goat entrails, and the flesh of Lycaon’s fifty-first son, Nictimos. Zeus, consumed with rage and disgust, struck the king’s home with a lightning bolt, and transformed Lycaon and his sons into creatures more suited to their savage natures: werewolves.

A monstrous, brutal, and bloodthirsty blend: blackened myrrh, crushed olive leaf, black musk, spikenard, frankincense, cypress wood, opoponax, white ginger, and patchouli.

And they came unto the brook of Eshcol, and cut down from thence a branch with one cluster of grapes, and they bare it between two upon a staff; and they brought of the pomegranates, and of the figs. The place was called the brook Eshcol, because of the cluster of grapes which the children of Israel cut down from thence. And they returned from searching of the land after forty days. And they went and came to Moses, and to Aaron, and to all the congregation of the children of Israel, unto the wilderness of Paran, to Kadesh; and brought back word unto them, and unto all the congregation, and shewed them the fruit of the land. And they told him, and said, We came unto the land whither thou sentest us, and surely it floweth with milk and honey; and this is the fruit of it. A fertile scent, generous, life-affirming, and swelling with a sense of triumph, warmth, and abundance: sweet milk, golden honey, fig fruit, pomegranate, dates, and white grape.

The Bull of Minos, guardian of the Labyrinth in Knossos. A deep, swarthy black musk dusted by a dark, resinous blend of sacred bisabol myrrh, atramentous benzoin, tsori, balsam, and galbanum.

The Moon of Ice shines its pale white light on snow-blanketed hills and barren fields. Icicles dangle from skeletal branches, and the desperate howl of starving men and beasts echo through the darkness.

January 2008.

Frost-crusted winter flowers, white pine, eucalyptus, and traditional lunar oils.

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.

The observer’s space within a partial eclipse.

Rich purple musk, moonflower, red sandalwood, black amber, oakmoss, copal, lavender, neroli, tobacco, and pomegranate.

August is a month of reflection. It is the month of rest before the harvest, and it holds for us a time between toils, a brief period of relaxation before we take up the burden of our work again. It is the Time of the Phoenix, a season of celebrating health, vitality, warmth and joy, but it is also the time at which the Corn God dies for the sake of the land, his blood soaking the earth to ensure a bountiful harvest in the fall.

The Full Red Moon of August was named thus by some Native American tribes because as the moon rises, it dons a reddish veil, visible through the hot, sweltering summer evening haze. Our blend for this Moon mixes traditional lunar oils with the warmth of amber, red musk, and heliotrope, the russet haze of dragon's blood resin, sunflower, and crushed orange peel, with a dusting of summertime herbs: chamomile, rue, elder flower and marigold.

The keeper of secrets: opoponax, Tunisian black amber, night musk, antique patchouli, zdravetz, terebinth, myrrh, and Pimenta racemosa.

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.

One day, a courtesan of unearthly beauty appeared at the Emperor’s court. Her skin was like silk and porcelain, and her eyes gleamed like polished onyx. Her body exuded an enchanting scent, and her robes were immaculate. She quickly endeared herself to the Emperor and his concubines; her unequaled grace was matched by a glittering wit and astonishing intellect, and though she appeared to be no older than twenty, there was no question that she could not answer. There seemed to be no limit to her knowledge and strange wisdom, and she was well-versed on every topic, from astronomy to Buddhist teachings. So profound was the Emperor’s fascination with this woman that he kept her by his side, day and night. One night, the Emperor and his court attended a performance of poetry and music at the serene Seiryoden. A strong gust of wind suddenly tore through the Leaping Tiger Garden into the performance hall, shaking the bamboo reeds and extinguishing the lanterns. The room was plunged into darkness, save for a warm, golden light that emanated from within the mysterious woman’s robes. She was aglow like the rising sun. Enthralled, the Emperor declared to his ministers that this woman must be an incarnation of the Buddha, and he named her Tamamo-no-Mae. Deeply in love and profoundly devoted, the Emperor exchanged weighty vows with his favored mistress, and showered her with gifts and affection.

Within months, the Emperor became ill. He was listless, his sword-hand faltered, his skin took on a grey cast, and his muscles began to sag. Horrified, his ministers went to all the priests and soothsayers in the land, begging them for answers. They had none. The ministers appealed to the people, begging them to raise their voices in prayer. The people loved the Emperor, and sent their prayers to the Gods. The Emperor’s condition did not change. Finally, the renowned astrologer, Abe no Yasuchika, divined the cause of the Emperor’s infirmity: Tamamo-no-Mae. She was not born of woman; her true form was that of a hundred-year-old, forty-two-foot-tall, two-tailed fox demon. Disguised as a beautiful courtesan, the demoness hoped to slowly kill the Emperor, and then take his place. Knowing that she was exposed, Tamamo-no-Mae fled the palace.

Horrified, the Emperor sent the greatest warriors in the land, Kazusa-no-Suke and Miura-no-Suke, to pursue and slay his former mistress. The creature was wily and elusive, and after many weeks of hunting, the warriors began to fear that they would be unable to bring the demon to justice, thus shaming themselves and their families. They vowed that they would commit suicide if they failed in their quest, and they prayed to the Gods for assistance. That night, a beautiful woman appeared to Miura-no-Suke in his dreams. Her lovely face was marred by weeping, and she begged the warrior to spare her life. He refused, and cut the woman down. Upon waking, he realized that the dream was an omen – they would find and kill the foxwoman this day – and the warriors resumed their hunt with renewed enthusiasm. The hunters spotted the fox on the Plains of Nasu, and Miura-no-Suke fired an arrow into her heart. She fell, and her body transformed into the Sessho-seki, the Killing Stone.

Tamamo-no-Mae’s scent is soft skin musk, brushed by white tea leaf, rice flower, black locust flower, white sandalwood kodo smoke, dry ginger, benzoin gum, and Amacha.

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.

Look down, fair moon, and bathe this scene; Pour softly down night’s nimbus floods, on faces ghastly, swollen, purple; On the dead, on their backs, with their arms toss’d wide, Pour down your unstinted nimbus, sacred moon. The chill winds and dark skies of November mark a time of reflection and release, and though the sting of grief is oft-times most painful during this portion of the year, the icy air brings clarity and eases the burden of suffering. These are the blossoms of loss and liberation, soothed by the calm, comforting scent of sandalwood : lilac, calla lily, wisteria, white sandalwood, moonflower, night musk, phlox, and violet.

This pale and glittering moon hangs high over the deep snows and freezing winds of midwinter. January’s full moon has been named the Wolf Moon by many cultures, as the nights are filled with the howls of ravenous wolf packs, and the danger of falling prey to the animal’s desperate hunger is at its peak.

This scent is that of unending, unquenchable hunger and feral madness. This is the dead of winter: a frozen night, chill wind, and the sharp, warm perfume of blood, fur, fang, and claw.

Winter air, Terebinth pine, juniper berry, dusty orris, deep amber, white sandalwood, black musk, blue cedar, and tonka.

A day of remembrance and intercession. Without the prayers and sacrifices of their families and loved ones, the faithful departed may not be cleansed of their venal sins, and thereby cannot attain beatific vision. On November 2nd, prayers are sung and offerings are made to aid lost souls in transcending purgatory.

An incense blend that invokes the higher qualities of mercy and compassion, mingled with the soft, sugared currant scent of offertory soul cakes.

A joyous celebration of La Catarina, La Flaca, La Muerte… Glorious, Beautiful Death. In Mexico, death is not something to be feared or hated; She is embraced, loved, and adored. La Muerte is fêted, as the celebrant "…chases after it, mocks it, courts it, hugs it, sleeps with it; it is his favorite plaything and his most lasting love." This is a Mexican paean to La Huesuda: dry, crackling leaves, the incense smoke of altars honoring Death and the Dead, funeral bouquets, the candies, chocolates, foods and tobacco of the ofrenda, amaranth, sweet cactus blossom and desert cereus.

The incense-tinged scent of forbidden tomes and the musk-laden remnants of infernal servants.

Three swarthy, smutty musks sweetened with sugar and woozy with dark booze notes.

Verily I say unto you, Among them that are born of women there hath not risen a greater than John the Baptist: notwithstanding he that is least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he.
-- Matthew 11:11

The birth of John the Baptist coincides with the Summer Solstice, and in keeping with the eternal rhythm of the universe, John understood that as the sun’s strength begins to wane after the Summer Solstice, so did he move aside after preparing the way for the Winter King, Christ.

Ye yourselves bear me witness, that I said, I am not the Christ, but that I am sent before him.

He that hath the bride is the bridegroom: but the friend of the bridegroom, which standeth and heareth him, rejoiceth greatly because of the bridegroom's voice: this my joy therefore is fulfilled.

He must increase, but I decrease.

-- John 3:28-30

St. John’s holy day is full of holy significance that is so primal and archetypal that it transcends any one faith. It is a merging of the rituals of Midsummer with symbols of Biblical faith. On this eve, prayers to God for bountiful harvests and fertility are said over St. John’s blessed bonfires, a leap over the sacred flames brings good fortune in new undertakings and unions, and the waters of rivers and lakes bring renewed strength, vitality, and spiritual cleansing.

A summer bonfire, with frankincense and myrrh, bay rum, and white rose.

Blood is too precious a thing in these days of dishonourable peace, and the glories of the great races are as a tale that is told. A distillation of force, conquest, power and fury: dragon's blood, myrrh, black pepper, labdanum, benzoin, leather, fire, and steel.

"At Purfleet, on a byroad, I came across just such a place as seemed to be required, and where was displayed a dilapidated notice that the place was for sale. It was surrounded by a high wall, of ancient structure, built of heavy stones, and has not been repaired for a large number of years. The closed gates are of heavy old oak and iron, all eaten with rust. "The estate is called Carfax, no doubt a corruption of the old Quatre Face, as the house is four sided, agreeing with the cardinal points of the compass. It contains in all some twenty acres, quite surrounded by the solid stone wall above mentioned. There are many trees on it, which make it in places gloomy, and there is a deep, dark-looking pond or small lake, evidently fed by some springs, as the water is clear and flows away in a fair-sized stream. The house is very large and of all periods back, I should say, to mediaeval times, for one part is of stone immensely thick, with only a few windows high up and heavily barred with iron. It looks like part of a keep, and is close to an old chapel or church. I could not enter it, as I had not the key of the door leading to it from the house, but I have taken with my Kodak views of it from various points. The house had been added to, but in a very straggling way, and I can only guess at the amount of ground it covers, which must be very great. There are but few houses close at hand, one being a very large house only recently added to and formed into a private lunatic asylum. It is not, however, visible from the grounds." The scent of abandoned places, of desolation and emptiness: heavy woods and thin dusty herbs touched by the wafting incense of a nearby chapel.

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."

He must, indeed, have been that Voivode Dracula who won his name against the Turk, over the great river on the very frontier of Turkeyland. If it be so, then was he no common man, for in that time, and for centuries after, he was spoken of as the cleverest and the most cunning, as well as the bravest of the sons of the 'land beyond the forest.' That mighty brain and that iron resolution went with him to his grave, and are even now arrayed against us. The Draculas were, says Arminius, a great and noble race, though now and again were scions who were held by their coevals to have had dealings with the Evil One. They learned his secrets in the Scholomance, amongst the mountains over Lake Hermanstadt, where the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due. In the records are such words as 'stregoica' witch, 'ordog' and 'pokol' Satan and hell, and in one manuscript this very Dracula is spoken of as 'wampyr,' which we all understand too well. There have been from the loins of this very one great men and good women, and their graves make sacred the earth where alone this foulness can dwell. For it is not the least of its terrors that this evil thing is rooted deep in all good, in soil barren of holy memories it cannot rest. The essence of nobility, brutality and true Will made flesh and propelled through the eons by an ever-burning hatred: black patchouli, neroli, tonka, cinnamon, bitter clove, leather, black musk, coffin wood and fiery ginger.

Well, my dear, number Two came after lunch. He is such a nice fellow, an American from Texas, and he looks so young and so fresh that it seems almost impossible that he has been to so many places and has such adventures… I suppose that we women are such cowards that we think a man will save us from fears, and we marry him. I know now what I would do if I were a man and wanted to make a girl love me. No, I don't, for there was Mr. Morris telling us his stories, and Arthur never told any, and yet… My dear, I am somewhat previous. Mr. Quincy P. Morris found me alone. It seems that a man always does find a girl alone. No, he doesn't, for Arthur tried twice to make a chance, and I helping him all I could, I am not ashamed to say it now. I must tell you beforehand that Mr. Morris doesn't always speak slang, that is to say, he never does so to strangers or before them, for he is really well educated and has exquisite manners, but he found out that it amused me to hear him talk American slang, and whenever I was present, and there was no one to be shocked, he said such funny things. I am afraid, my dear, he has to invent it all, for it fits exactly into whatever else he has to say. But this is a way slang has. I do not know myself if I shall ever speak slang. I do not know if Arthur likes it, as I have never heard him use any as yet. Well, Mr. Morris sat down beside me and looked as happy and jolly as he could, but I could see all the same that he was very nervous. He took my hand in his, and said ever so sweetly… "Miss Lucy, I know I ain't good enough to regulate the fixin's of your little shoes, but I guess if you wait till you find a man that is you will go join them seven young women with the lamps when you quit. Won't you just hitch up alongside of me and let us go down the long road together, driving in double harness?" Rough on the edges, but possessing the true essence of valor and nobility of spirit: tobacco, vanilla, white pear, cedar, rugged musk and saddle leather.

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.

Sane, sol et in cloacam radios suos defert nec inquinatur. A radiant blend of solar oils: golden amber, saffron, heliotrope, hibiscus, citron, frangipani, frankincense, tangerine, mock orange, and orange blossom.

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front; And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, — that am not shap'd for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time Into this breathing world scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them; — Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun, And descant on mine own deformity: And therefore, — since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken days, — I am determined to prove a villain, And hate the idle pleasures of these days. Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams, To set my brother Clarence and the king In deadly hate the one against the other: And if King Edward be as true and just As I am subtle, false, and treacherous, This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up, — About a prophecy which says that G Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be. Dive, thoughts, down to my soul...

Embrace your villainy: balsam, myrrh, mandarin orange, bitter clove, artemesia, rosewood, nutmeg, dark musk, smoke and cypress.

The Day of Kings, the Celebration of the Magi. In Mexico, on January 6th, children place their shoes by their windows. If they have been good during the previous year, the Wise Men tuck gifts into their shoes during the night.

Hot cocoa with cinnamon, coffee, and brown sugar.

A dizzying eddy of four teas brushed with light herbs and a breath of peony.

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.

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.

The dry, glorious warmth of the Savannah. A golden, spiced amber, proud, regal and ferocious.

A gentlemen's lavender-citron cologne unhinged by the feral pungence of black musk and a paroxysm of pennyroyal.

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.

                    `Fury said to a
                   mouse, That he
                 met in the
               house,
            "Let us
              both go to
                law:  I will
                  prosecute
                    YOU.  —Come,
                       I'll take no
                        denial; We
                     must have a
                 trial:  For
              really this
           morning I've
          nothing
         to do."
           Said the
             mouse to the
               cur, "Such
                 a trial,
                   dear Sir,
                         With
                     no jury
                  or judge,
                would be
              wasting
             our
              breath."
               "I'll be
                 judge, I'll
                   be jury,"
                         Said
                    cunning
                      old Fury:
                     "I'll
                      try the
                         whole
                          cause,
                             and
                        condemn
                       you
                      to
                       death."

Vanilla, two ambers, sweet pea and white sandalwood.

'Would you tell me,' said Alice, a little timidly, 'why you are painting those roses?' Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, 'Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a red rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to—' A huge bouquet of squished rose petals: Bulgarian rose, Somalian rose, Turkish rose, Damascus rose, red and white rose, tea rose, wine rose, shrub roses, rose, rose, rose… …and just an itty bitty bit of green grass.

Bulgarian rose, Somalian rose, Turkish rose, Damascus rose, red and white rose, tea rose, wine rose, shrub roses, rose, rose, rose… …and just an itty bitty bit of green grass.

A misty, almost luminous perfume: wispy linden blossoms, white flowers, and a touch of sweet herbs.

Strong black tea and milk with white pepper, ginger, honey and vanilla, spilled over the crisp scent of clean linen.

Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. Two of these were wrong; Heaven is not England, whatever certain poets may have thought, and angels are sexless unless they really want to make an effort.

Ethereal musk, blonde woods, and dusty Bible accord.

Nothing about him looked particularly demonic, at least by classical standards. No horns, no wings. Admittedly he was listening to a Best of Queen tape, but no conclusions should be drawn from this because all tapes left in a car for more than a fortnights metamorphose into Best of Queen albums. No particularly demonic thoughts were going through his head. In fact, he was wondering vaguely who Moey and Chandon were.

Crowley had dark hair, and good cheekbones, and he was wearing snakeskin shoes, or at least presumably he was wearing shoes, and he could do really weird things with his tongue. And, whenever he forgot himself, he had a tendency to hiss.

Infernal musk, red patchouli, lilac cologne, mahogany, lemon rind, oakmoss, leather, and vanilla husk.

Shadwell had turned out to be about five feet high and wore clothes which, no matter what they actually were, always turned up in your short-term memory as an old mackintosh. The old man may have all his own teeth, but only because no-one else could possibly have wanted them; just one of them, placed under the pillow, would have made the Tooth Fairy hand in its wand.

He appeared to live entirely on sweet tea, condensed milk, hand-rolled cigarettes, and a sort of sullen internal energy. Shadwell had a Cause, while he followed with the full resources of his soul and his Pensioner's Concessionary Travel Pass. He believed in it. It powered him like a turbine.

Roll-ups, mildewed raincoat, sweet tea, and condensed milk.

She finished the drink, hefted the sword over one shoulder, and looked around at the puzzled factions, who now encircled her completely. 'Sorry to run out on you, chaps,' she said. 'Would love to stay and get to know you better.'

The men in the room suddenly realized they didn't want to know her better. She was beautiful, but she was beautiful in the way a forest fire was beautiful: something to be admired from a distance, but not up close.

And she held her sword, and she smiled like a knife.

Red ginger, black spices, patchouli, honeysuckle, and three blood-soaked red musks.

The smoke stung Shadow’s eyes. He wiped the tears away with his hand, and, through the smoke, he thought he saw a tall man in a suit, with gold-rimmed spectacles. The smoke cleared and the boatman was once more a half-human creature with the head of a river bird.

Papyrus, vanilla flower, Egyptian musk, African musk, aloe ferox, white sandalwood.

Shadow looked up at the creature. "Mr. Jacquel?" he said.

The hands of Anubis came down, huge dark hands, and they picked Shadow up and brought him close.

The jackal head examined him with bright and glittering eyes; examined him as dispassionately as Mr. Jacquel had examined the dead girl on the slab. Shadow knew that all his faults, all his failings, all his weaknesses were being taken out and weighed and measured; that he was, in some way, being dissected, and sliced, and tasted.

We do not remember the things that do no credit to us. We justify them, cover them in bright lies or with the thick dust of forgetfulness. All of the things that Shadow had done in his life of which he was not proud, all the things he wished his had done otherwise or left undone, came at him then in a swirling storm of guilt and regret and shame, and he had nowhere to hide from them. He was as naked and as open as a corpose on a table, and dark Anubis the jackal god was his prosector and his prosecutor and his persecutor.

"Please," said Shadow. "Please stop."

But the examination did not stop. Every lie he had ever told, every object he had stolen, every hurt he had inflicted on another person, all the little crimes and the tiny murders that make up the day, each of these things and more were extracted and held up to the light by the jackal-headed judge of the dead.

Golden amber, hyssop, North African patchouli, and embalming spices.

The dark, of night.

Teak, frankincense, caramel, oakmoss, red currant, labdanum absolute, bitter clove, patchouli, star anise, tobacco, and black musk.

Smoldering coals heat the device from below, and steam hisses through two curved pipes, rotating the shining brass sphere.

Glowing amber and citrus, labdanum, verbena, cedar, and oud.

Glass globes fill with sweet vitriol, and the gas passes lazily through slim tubes. A misty fog veils the senses, and the world fades to hazy, opaque nothingness.

Translucent blooms, ethereal white resins, and davana.

Golden goggles fitted with zinc and copper plates dangle heavily by their leather straps from a hook mounted to the wall. Its crystal lenses are effulgent with residual electric energy.

Metallic notes with Indian musk, tobacco flower, and African balsam.

Bronze gears spin inside a polished wooden case, and an entire universe dances within.

Teakwood, oak, black vanilla, and tobacco.

Tinkling tiny feet scuttle across a massive oak desk, navigating through a flurry of papers and a maze of discarded books, wires, and bolts. Glistening green venom beads at its chelicerae, and a ruby hourglass flashes from the creature's underbelly as it begins to weave.

Pinot noir, dark myrrh, red sandalwood, black patchouli, night-blooming jasmine, and attar of rose.

Born in the shadows of a Temple to Set, this corrupted Egyptian scent evokes images of black pyramids, river demons, and bleak, deadly desert sands. Black lotus flower, amber, myrrh and sandalwood.

Sensual, robust, and silken: voluptuous red rose bursting with lascivious red wine and sultry dragon's blood resin.

A lethal poison bundled up in a dainty, innocent little package that was oft times found in ancient witches' flying ointments and astral projection balms. A warm, soft, ruddy scent, earthy and mild.

This infamous herb has a long, complex history: it has been used in spells of death and destruction, was a principal component in traditional witches' flying ointments, and was the poison used to put the philosopher Socrates to death. We have created a dark, profound herbal blend to personify and honor this wicked little plant.

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.

Venerable and solemn: the scent of incense smoke wafting through an ancient church. A true ecclesiatical blend of pure resins.

A wonderful antidote to an all-nighter oozing with drunken, addled perversion and debauchery. A fresh, crisp white linen scent: perfectly clean, perfectly breezy.

The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself. Inspired by and created for my beloved Tedwin: my eternal, beautiful, wicked Dorian Gray. Refined, elegant, and lovely, with a noble bearing and seemingly gentle air. This blend is an artful deception: a sweet gilded blossom lying over a twisted and corrupted core.

A Victorian fougere with three pale musks and dark, sugared vanilla tea.

Base and earthy, yet glittering with golden notes: patchouli, heliotrope, copal and oakmoss.

A scent celebrating Sir Francis Dashwood's Order of the Knights of St. Francis of Wycombe, also known as the Hellfire Club. A swirl of pipe tobacco, hot leather, ambergris, dark musk and the lingering incense smoke from their Black Mass.

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

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

A profound symbol of an individual's personal initiatic process, spiritual refinement and evolution, synthesis, grace found as a result of trial and suffering, and the alchemical process by which we transform the raw essence of our souls through light in extension. This is a holy oil, a representation of the triumph of spirit over matter: purest rose with sacred frankincense.

Tenacity, force, strength, stability, and determination: Chinese musk and gleaming white metal with honeysuckle, rose mallow, verbena, and carnation.

Sensual, sibilant, sexual and hypnotic: Arabian musk and exotic spices slinking through Egyptian amber, enticing vanilla, and a serpentine blend of black plum, labdanum, ambrette, benzoin and black coconut.

Flexibility, cooperation, expansiveness, and altruism: Chinese musk and five woods with newly budding bamboo shoots, hyssop, chamomile, pink clove, magnolia, walnut, and fig.

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

Black pine, patchouli, honeysuckle, oakmoss, almond and other soft earthen tones.

A commanding, dominant oil that increases sexual magnetism, creates an intense and irresistible air of attraction, and amplifies potency.

A venerable voodoo blend, used for purification of the spirit and to amplify positive personal power.

Tulips, peony, fresh flowing water and crisp green grasses.

The essence of holy Kyphi, beloved incense of the Egyptian Gods.

A tropical, humid, lush scent, with a faint echo of Pacific breezes, jungle blossoms, and deep wet woods. Sampaguita blossoms, banana leaf, palm, and narra.

The intoxicating perfume of exotic incenses wafting on warm desert breezes. Arabian spices wind through a blend of warm musk, carnation, red sandalwood and cassia.

March 21 – April 19 Cardinal fire: the essence of identity.

Black pepper, honeysuckle, opoponax, dragon’s blood, and wild ginger.