Heretic

When Hunger Moon hangs high in the sky, the fields are frozen, and game is piteously scarce. Sleet covers the ground, and biting winds chill to the bone. This is a quiet, cold perfume: desolate and despairing. It is a clear night sky that and bracing chill wind that bears the promise of snow, sharpened by the pain of hunger, and the sharp, rasping stab of thirst. Ozone, white sandalwood, crystallized white amber, verbena, oakmoss, clary sage, and a hint of white citrus rind. In the bottle: Fruity, bright, dry. On my wrist, wet: Definitely a dry, fruity blend, but not cloying or overly sweet. Hopefully it will stay that way. After 20 minutes: A very interesting blend and one that scared me a little at first because verbena is a deal breaker for me. There is a definite trace of verbena there, giving this blend its fruitiness in the wet stage, but now, as the sandalwood and earthier notes are taking the stage, the verbena amounts to a bit of a tang, no more. After 40 minutes: This is a soft blend, the throw is mild and I am so relieved that the verbena doesn't own it. It is a light, earthy, very slightly fruity scent and is like a chilly ray of winter sun. This will wear well into spring.

A huge crowd mills in front of the next stage. You hear the din of their voices, chattering in a Babel's fall of languages, laughing and buzzing with a strange anticipation. As you get closer, you notice that they are wearing a motley mix of clothing from ages past... all rotting, all in shreds. In the sea of faces, all bearing a similar chalky pallor, some stand out: there is a woman in a threadbare Burgundian gown, a young man in torn breeches and sagging slops, a maiden in a dagged-sleeve houppelande that is splattered with cruor, a snarling Victorian rogue with a battered silk top hat, and a vacant-eyed man in a shredded Confederate uniform. As you make your way through the crowd, you feel cold fingers pluck at your clothing, and the hard, almost glassy skin that you brush against radiates an unnatural cold. You hear tittering sighs as you push through the gathering, and your skin prickles as you feel icy breath upon your neck. Abruptly, someone cries out, and the strange congregation begins clapping a steady rhythm. Their voices rise in a tintamar of ghastly cheers as torches flare to life on the stage. The firelight illuminates a gargantuan, shining black stake in the center of the stage. It is festooned with black ribbons, drooping moss, and viciously-colored poisonous blooms in a playful, grotesque mockery of a Maypole. Two women, clutched tightly in a brutal embrace, spin onto the stage, shaking a tambourine and clacking a hembra in time with the clapping. One is clad in violet, with violet tresses to match; the other is a vision of swirling rose. Their long, waving hair whips in manic arcs as they twirl, stomp, and pirouette around the onyx shaft. The crowd becomes more and more frenzied as the dance reaches a mad crescendo, and suddenly you realize that the two are one: they are conjoined, identical twins, bound eternally at the ribs. The violet sister, caught in the throes of the ritual's passion, throws her head back and moans. She bares a set of gleaming white fangs and bites deeply into her sister's neck. The rose maiden screams in joy, and returns her sister's violent kiss as the crowd explodes into Corybantic mayhem. Simplicity and innocence, gleefully despoiled! Hope is sugared rose, Faith is sugared violet. The sisters are inseparable, and may only be purchased together. In the bottle: Soft, sugared rose, a little light muskiness underneath. On my wrist, wet: Like her sister scent, Hope has no sharpness and the sweetness is not overbearing. Hope's rose is a bit bolder than Faith's violet. It reminds me of a cup of sugary rose tea. After 20 minutes: The rose note lightens up a little and that same familiar light muskiness that is in faith begins to emerge. The creaminess is here as well, but slightly less pronounced than in Faith. After 40 minutes: Like her sister, Hope ends up being a gorgeously feminine scent without being overbearing and cloying. The sugary, candied notes dry down completely to a sweet, creamy floral, reminiscent of a rose touched Antique Lace. As is the case with her sister scent, if you don't care for rose, you will not like this. I happen to love rose (as well as violet), and to have Hope on one wrist and Faith on the other is just sending me into blissful fits. Talk about an oilgasm. I will buy at least one more set of the twins before they disappear. PLEASE NOTE: When they were first posted to the Lab's Web site, the twins' descriptions were accidentally switched. I've fixed the description here, but there may still be some reviews that reflect the incorrect description. --Shollin Edited to change Hope to Faith.

The fear of Halloween. Menacing Haitian vetiver, patchouli, and clove with a shock of bourbon geranium, grim oakmoss, and dread-inspiring balsams pierce the innocuous scent of autumn leaves. In the Bottle: Ah, my beloved vetiver! And some subtle muskiness lurking beneath. On my wrist, wet: This is lovely. Warm and woody with a little bit of spiciness. The vetiver takes a back seat and lets the other notes come out to play. After 20 minutes: This is a warm, dark green scent That starts out rather strong and fades quickly to something soft and subtle. The individual notes are all present, but they reveal themselves gently. On my skin, nothing in this blend amps or battles with other notes. It's absolutely gorgeous and I will get another bottle with my next order.

A perfect red rose darkened by vetiver, opium tar, labdanum, and red benzoin. In the bottle: Well hi there, vetiver! On my wrist, wet: Vetiver! And yet a little something spicy and soft blooming underneath. After 20 minutes: At this point, I can't identify the vetiver as vetiver (and I LOVE vetiver). It has blended perfectly into a softly spiced rose. This is not the "straight from the florist's cooler" rose of Rose Red, but more of the slightly soapy Rose Cross rose. The vetiver holds the soapiness back as the rose note develops. After 40 minutes: Now a soft, powdered rose. The vetiver at this point is not really perceptible. The drydown process for The Sick Rose is very interesting. The wet scent is really nothing like the mature, dried bloom on the wrist. If you don't care for vetiver, I don't think its use here is a deal-breaker because it compliments the other components so well. Vetiver tends to amp on my body, and I found that it was beautifully muted and balanced after the initial drydown period. No note in this blend is overpowering-- in fact, I find it to be one of those scents that draws people closer because it's such a soft, unusual scent. I will wear this all spring.

A huge crowd mills in front of the next stage. You hear the din of their voices, chattering in a Babel's fall of languages, laughing and buzzing with a strange anticipation. As you get closer, you notice that they are wearing a motley mix of clothing from ages past... all rotting, all in shreds. In the sea of faces, all bearing a similar chalky pallor, some stand out: there is a woman in a threadbare Burgundian gown, a young man in torn breeches and sagging slops, a maiden in a dagged-sleeve houppelande that is splattered with cruor, a snarling Victorian rogue with a battered silk top hat, and a vacant-eyed man in a shredded Confederate uniform. As you make your way through the crowd, you feel cold fingers pluck at your clothing, and the hard, almost glassy skin that you brush against radiates an unnatural cold. You hear tittering sighs as you push through the gathering, and your skin prickles as you feel icy breath upon your neck. Abruptly, someone cries out, and the strange congregation begins clapping a steady rhythm. Their voices rise in a tintamar of ghastly cheers as torches flare to life on the stage. The firelight illuminates a gargantuan, shining black stake in the center of the stage. It is festooned with black ribbons, drooping moss, and viciously-colored poisonous blooms in a playful, grotesque mockery of a Maypole. Two women, clutched tightly in a brutal embrace, spin onto the stage, shaking a tambourine and clacking a hembra in time with the clapping. One is clad in violet, with violet tresses to match; the other is a vision of swirling rose. Their long, waving hair whips in manic arcs as they twirl, stomp, and pirouette around the onyx shaft. The crowd becomes more and more frenzied as the dance reaches a mad crescendo, and suddenly you realize that the two are one: they are conjoined, identical twins, bound eternally at the ribs. The violet sister, caught in the throes of the ritual's passion, throws her head back and moans. She bares a set of gleaming white fangs and bites deeply into her sister's neck. The rose maiden screams in joy, and returns her sister's violent kiss as the crowd explodes into Corybantic mayhem. Simplicity and innocence, gleefully despoiled! Hope is sugared rose, Faith is sugared violet. The sisters are inseparable, and may only be purchased together. In the bottle: Softly sweet violets and something vaguely musky. On my wrist, wet: Lightly sugared violet. There is no sharpness to this scent, no cloying sweetness. Just a soft, candied violet. After 20 minutes: This is just beautiful. If you aren't a fan of violet, don't bother with Hope, because there's no getting away from the scent of violet. In drydown, there's a creamy quality that begins to emerge that smells somewhat familiar-- perhaps it's the musk I smelled directly from the bottle. After 40 minutes: I will die of pleasure. It smells like a violet Antique Lace. What an utterly gorgeous, feminine scent. It's subtle, creamy, deeply floral. I seem to be unable to stop smelling my wrist. If you like violet at all, you need Faith. She's divine. PLEASE NOTE: When they were first posted to the Lab's Web site, the twins' descriptions were accidentally switched. I've fixed the description here, but there may still be some reviews that reflect the incorrect description. --Shollin Edited to change Hope to Faith, Faith to Hope.

Upon the next stage, a spotlight is focused on a mammoth bronze sculpture of two snakes entwined. Their bodies are wrapped around each other in an intimate embrace, and their tongues touch suggestively. The deep, somber boom of a standing bass leads into a twelve-string guitar's plaintive moan, and as the music swells, a stunning, statuesque woman steps out from behind the statue, her fierce and regal face in profile. The spotlight dims to a deep amber-red, and shines a dark, sanguine light onto her, tinting her long, wild hair the color of blood. She sings: Sunday is gloomy, my hours are slumberless. Dearest, the shadows I live with are numberless. Little white flowers will never awaken you, Not where the black coach of sorrow has taken you. Angels have no thought of ever returning you. Would they be angry if I thought of joining you? Gloomy Sunday. She turns, and abruptly faces left. Her features are coarser, more masculine, and you notice the rough, dusky shadow of an evening beard on the singer's face. On this side, the hair is cropped short, and as s/he sighs and begins the next verse, you hear the voice deepen to a weathered, sorrowful baritone. Gloomy is Sunday; with shadows I spend it all. My heart and I have decided to end it all. Soon there'll be candles and prayers that are sad, I know. Death is no dream, for in death I'm caressing you. With the last breath of my soul I'll be blessing you. Gloomy Sunday. The singer turns to face the audience, and your senses reel. On the left side, the features are sharp, but feminine. You can see the curve of her breast, the soft fullness of her hips, the arch of her fine brow. On the right, it is the body of an Adonis, muscular and commanding. You see that a thick seam runs down the center of the body, stitched roughly. Though the vision is disconcerting, the warmth and passion in the singer's voice swells inside your heart, and you are spellbound. Enraptured, you realize that though the gender is opposed on either side, one soul binds the whole. Dark, moody, and bittersweet: black currant, patchouli, tobacco, cinnamon leaf, caramel, muguet, and red sandalwood. In the bottle: Caramel On my wrist, wet: Caramel and red sandalwood. This opened my sinuses right up! After 20 minutes: A spicy caramel with major throw. The sandalwood is taking right over. After 40 minutes: Tiresias has major throw. The caramel outshines everything else in the blend, but at the end of drydown the sandalwood mellows and some of the other notes come out. The pathchouli appears only as a woody note, so if you are put off by its inclusion, don't be. This is a strong scent with some light, subtle touches. It is indeed both masculine and feminine.

The ringing of a gong seizes your attention, and you follow the sound to the next stage. It is empty, devoid of any backdrop, and the platform is dark. A haze blankets your vision, like heat radiating off of the desert floor. You hear the sound of hands clapping a steady rhythm, and within moments, the haze begins to coalesce into the forms of a troupe of ghostly women, clad in linen shifts. Their wraithlike hands pluck at the strings of translucent zithers and harps, shake spectral sistrums, and their pallid lips blow upon ethereal flutes. The music that they play is discordant, otherworldly, and seems to be at once a funeral dirge and a paean to life: a triumphant lamentation. As the sound swells, you hear the beating of wings in the distance, and a keen, a siren's ululation, joins the haunting melody. As the song reaches its eerie crescendo, a beautiful winged woman alights on the stage, summoned by the phantom song. Her skin is dusky brown, and the vigor of her youthful body seems in conflict with the depth of grief reflected in her eyes. Her wings spread out behind her in morbid majesty, and she takes flight. Her dance is, itself, a visible act of mourning, and is almost sensual in its sorrow. Frankincense, hyssop, hibiscus, river reeds, orris root, palm frond, and olibanum. In the bottle: Frankincense On my wrist, wet: Frankincense, dry and bitter-sweet. There is a hint of green. After 20 minutes: The bitter-sweetness has dissipated and what remains is a dry frankincense with an almost herbal note. After 40 minutes: Meskhenet isn't a morpher and didn't go through a great revealing of notes. It doesn't jump out and demand to be noticed. Rather, it remains a quiet, dry frankincense and a steadily growing reedy green note with which it eventually shares center stage. This is not a heavy resinous scent at all and is one that all resin-lovers should try.

You are shocked out of the torch song's melancholy mood by shrieks, hoots, and yowls. You move to your left, and see that instead of a stage, a gigantic iron cage has been hung, hovering a few feet off of the ground. Elaborate, delicate silver sigils are engraved upon huge iron disks that have been mounted to the sides of the cage, and they flicker and spark whenever one of the wild men touches the iron bars that imprison them. The backdrop depicts a blistering volcanic eruption, spiked with thick luminescent bolts of lightning. Several beings are held within the cage, male and female, spanning every age. They flash their razor-fanged smiles at you malevolently as they anxiously crawl, pace, and stalk the length of their prison, stopping occasionally to pose and preen as they gossip with one another in an unrecognizable guttural, grinding language. Their tattooed skin glows an angry crimson, curving horns protrude from their skulls, and their eyes blaze with unholy light. Fiery, primal, and precociously diabolical: red amber, Spanish moss, Indonesian patchouli, ambergris, red pepper, two cloves, and vanilla flower. In the bottle: Very green and mossy. On my wrist, wet: Cloves and a little amber. A lot different than the original whiff out of the bottle. After 20 minutes: This isn't so wild. It's very pleasant and the amber retains a wonderful slight spiciness instead of turning powdery. After 40 minutes: I love the Wildmen. I ended up with amber and some green (must be the moss), a hint of patchouli and that subtle clove spice that keeps everything a little lively. I'm not usually one for a spicy-hot type of scent, but this one has all the right ingredients to be spicy and yet still have several layers of notes. It's not an "in your face" spice, but one that smolders quietly as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Wear this one in the snow and you'll melt it. Would be fabulous on men or women.

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. In the bottle: Wow. Booze and cologne. On my wrist, wet: Bay rum, sweet tobacco After 20 minutes: Slightly dusty remnants of Bay rum. More powdery than anything else. It's a thin scent. After 40 minutes: Alas, Isaac is gone. My skin devoured him and after a half hour I was sniffing frantically for anything more than a faint trace of powder. Hopefully, this is just my chemistry and he won't pull a disappearing act on everyone.

A massive glass tank is positioned on the stage, decorated with a rough canvas painting of sand and sea. Within the tank, you see a swirl of ivory, coral, and russet. After a few rushed passes, the furiously moving creature slows and makes her way towards the glass. As she approaches, you see that her features are lovely and delicate, and though her pearl-adorned torso is that of a beautiful, slender woman, her bewitching face is crowned by lethal spikes and instead of legs she has a writhing serpentine tail. Upon spotting you, her dorsal spikes flare, and she sneers maliciously. She slaps the face of the tank with her powerful tail, and you hear the distinctive sound of the glass cracking under the strain. Seaweed, kelp, salty ocean spray, bitter almond, night-blooming jasmine, frankincense, and benzoin. In the bottle: Glorious aquatic. On my wrist, wet: Aquatic, but with a very mellow edge. After 20 minutes: A very subdued and salty aquatic. It sits on the skin like it wants to become a part of it. There is something vaguely resinous and sweet as a base note-- this must be the frankincense. The color association I have with this is not a light blue, but a lake green. Not a murky blend, but rich and substantial. After 40 minutes: I was concerned about the jasmine and bitter almond, since both of these tend to amp and take over blends on me. Instead, Thelassa is a tranquil aquatic that is rich and mellow, due in no small part to the frankincense and benzoin. Those two ingredients keep this blend from becoming cloying or too much like a lily blend. The depth and richness of Thelassa makes this my absolute favorite of all Beth's aquatics. It's stunning.

The sound of metal smashing metal jars your ears, and you follow the cacophony to the next stage. The backdrop is painted with streaks of lightning, and you see that an iron sign hangs above it, now broken, pounded into pieces, possibly by a hammer or mallet. Despite the damage, you can still make out the words that have been burned into its face: Property of Pygmalion Industries, LLC A slender, willowy blonde is facing the sign, looking up at it thoughtfully. She reaches up, and with unbelievable strength, speed, and fury, pounds the sign with her fists until it is an unrecognizable mess, and it falls to the ground with a thunderous crash. She turns, and you realize that this is no creature born of woman: she is half human, half machine. Her exposed stomach shows brass and copper gears, and her joints are girded with steel. You see that her hands are covered in blood as she reaches towards a large burlap sack on the floor, picks it up, and tosses it at your feet. It lands with a sickening wet splat. She locks her gaze on yours, and her hollow, mechanical voice murmurs, “I am no man's property.” Gentle flowers over hot metal, shocked to life with electricity. In the bottle: Sharp and metallic, almost aquatic. On my wrist, wet: Light soft floral, a little sharp. Is there a hint of mint in there? After 20 minutes: This is so pretty. It's a cold, light floral, but very dainty. After 40 minutes: There really is the tang of hot metal in this blend, I don't know how, but it's there almost overshadowing the pretty flowers. Katanya manages to be hot and cold at the same time, as well as hard and soft. This one will be great for spring and summer.

Love always finds shelter in the gentle heart. Dolce Stil Nuovo is a 13th & 14th century Florentine literary style that celebrates love and womanhood through heartfelt, delicate, and melodious sonnets, ballate, and canzones. This is fin'amor, Courtly Love, in its most moving form, and the emotions that these words express reflect love that both spiritual and idealized. Within this literary movement, earthly love reaches for the Divine. Who is she coming, whom all gaze upon, Who makes the air tremulous with light, And at whose side is Love himself? that none Dare speak, but each man's sighs are infinite. Ah me! how she looks round from left to right, Let Love discourse: I may not speak thereon. Lady she seems of such high benison As makes all others graceless in men's sight. The honor which is hers cannot be said; To whom are subject all things virtuous, While all things beauteous own her deity. Ne'er was the mind of man so nobly led Nor yet was such redemption granted us That we should ever know her perfectly. Our interpretation of Dolce Stil Nuovo is a blend of rose otto, carnation, vanilla flower, lavender and jasmine with the clarity of crystalline white musk and the warmth of golden amber. In the bottle: A very clean floral. On my wrist, wet: Sweet and floral with an almost candy-like muskiness. After 20 minutes: Creamy, subtle floral with the amber providing a little warm powderiness. This doesn't smell like flowers as much as it smells like the ghosts of flowers. After 40 minutes: Dolce Stil Nuovo is primarily a subdued floral, but there is also a warm creaminess to the blend that adds an entirely different dimension to it in all stages of drydown. The choice of muted floral components is complimented by the subtle musk and amber notes. This is a blend that suits a woman who is feminine, understated and confident. Lovely!

You move towards the first stage on your right, and as you walk, you feel something brush across your cheek. Something about the softness of the phantom caress makes your skin crawl, and you flinch involuntarily. At that moment, the Spider Girl strides haughtily onto the platform, her stiletto heels clicking a strange staccato as she walks. Her body is wrapped in skin-tight strips of black PVC, and the gleaming vinyl glistens in stark contrast to the alabaster skin on her six pale, white arms. She gestures to the rafters above with a graceful flick of her blood-red nails. In dread, your eyes are drawn skyward: above her, in a gossamer snare, web-shrouded bodies twist and struggle. A swirling, hypnotic perfume of black currant, poppy, red and black musk, lilies, nicotiana, and patchouli. In the bottle: Cologne, poppy, a hint of fruit On my wrist, wet: Poppy and the slightest hint of musk. After 20 minutes: Very pretty dark fruit with soft muskiness in the background. It has a certain dry quality to it, though, which I think comes from the poppy. This is not a juicy fruit. After 40 minutes: I really like this blend and the final drydown is my favorite part because the patchouli finally comes out to play. It's a soft patchouli, tempered with lily and the slightest hint of musk. This is really lovely. It's a bold fragrance, but very intricate and undoubtedly feminine, maybe even a little formal. Even patchouli haters should give this one a shot.

You pass through the golden mouth, and find yourself inside a narrow, cramped corridor. Large wooden paintings of skeletal hands crook their bony fingers, leading you forwards. At the first turn, you hear a bizarre jumble of sounds: the high-pitched sound of gears grinding, metal on metal, the sound of sultry, low-pitched laughter, a clattering, wings flapping, soft hissing. Suddenly, a sharp howl pierces the darkness. As you make your way around the corner you are momentarily blinded as floodlights flicker to life, and thirteen gold-gilded stages are illuminated, bathed from beneath in sinister, caramel-colored light. Dust, incense, wet tobacco, and a curl of opium smoke. In the bottle: Sweet incense. On my wrist, wet: Nice. Incense and a hint of tobacco hide a thin, sharp note that curls right up your nose. After 20 minutes: This is wonderful. The opium smoke lends a sharp sweetness that reminds me of a gentle white musk, the sharpness tempered by an unidentifiable dustiness. This is gorgeous on me, but would be damn sexy on a man as well. After 40 minutes: This ends up with a vanilla-like note that replaces that sharp note from the initial stage. This is a bit sultry, even with the dust, and the tobacco doesn't come to the fore with blazing sweetness like many tobacco blends. Instead, it's almost sweet. The Parliament of Monsters that has my nose glued to my wrist. Another bottle of this one. It's a sexy beast.

A lively tune is being played nearby; it is syncopated, a disjointed song, but perky and upbeat. As you turn to the next stage, you see the broad back and shaggy hair of the next performer. He is seated on a stool in front of a battered upright piano. Wire pokes out from holes in the back of the decrepit beechwood, and broken pinblocks are scattered on the floor. A bowl of glistening viscera has been plopped on a small end table next to the pianist. You can see that the ivory keys of the piano are smeared with blood. He pounds and tinkles the keys merrily, and laughs to himself. The man turns to the audience, and his unkempt russet hair, feral yellow eyes, wild balbo, and chin curtain beard betray his lycanthropic nature. He smiles widely, innocently, and waves his red-stained, black-clawed paw in a genial welcome. He bellows cheerfully, "Hi there! Make yourself comfortable! Don't you look absolutely necrolishious! HA! HAHA! I just made that word up!" He laughs again, turns, and resumes playing the piano. The rambling tune picks up pace, and he plays with a showman's flourish. The song slows as he chats with the audience from over his shoulder. "You know, my ex-girlfriend was a real handful, but really... I've never known a woman that was as tender as she was. She was all gushy, and well... to be honest, she just fell to pieces for me. Eventually, things ran their course... three courses, really... and, as they say, nothing lasts forever. But I'll always have a piece of her, here... close to my heart." He chuckles, and pats the chest of his patchwork overcoat. In the distance, possibly from Meskhenet's stage, you hear one of the phantom musicians give Wulric a gratuitous rim shot. Friendly, charming, and cuddly, but possessing one hell of a mean streak: cocoa absolute, French vanilla, birch tar, lavender, bourbon vetiver, wild musk, clary sage, and cistus. In the bottle: Cocoa and vetiver (and yet it works) On my wrist, wet: The initial note to hit the nose is cocoa which is quickly chased by the sharp lavender. Every little sniff indicates that this is a complex scent--I'm curious to see where it goes. After 20 minutes: What a surprise! This has softened into a a very rich green blend, the richness coming from just a hint of cocoa remaining and a touch of vanilla. It's not a foody scent at all. The greens form a pleasant conglomeration without one taking precedent over the other. If you are afraid of the vetiver, don't be. It's harmless. After 40 minutes: I liked Wulric far more than I expected to. I amazed at the mellowing effects of the cocoa and vanilla on what would normally be sharp and bold green notes. This is a blend for men, but I think it will work quite well on women who can pull off a somewhat masculine scent because of the overall softness and harmony of the blend.

Upon the next stage, a primitive cage has been erected. It is made of heavy, dark sticks bound with strips of deep brown leather. The stage is as dark as pitch, and from the shadows, you hear soft hissing, spitting, and an ominous chorus of weird rattling sounds. You approach with some trepidation, and peer between the bars. Your attention is seized by writhing forms on the straw bottom of the cage. As your eyes adjust to the gloom, you realize that the floor is seething with serpents, dark and colorful, languid and large, swift and small. You hear a sultry chuckle, and you see bright, unblinking emerald eyes staring at you from the corner of the cage. A woman crawls through the snakes, her scaled body as sinuous and lissome as the creatures that share her home. She reaches towards you languorously with her sharp-clawed hands and sighs. A sensual blend of twisting, exotic, serpentine oils: black amber, caraway, oakmoss, green sandalwood, bergamot, jasmine sambac, gardenia, orange pulp, vanilla, blackberry, black musk, white honey, ti leaf, and ginger. In the bottle: Dark, damp green. It slithers, somehow. On my wrist, wet: Oh ho ho. This is dark. The caraway pokes out of a deep green base, the sandalwood providing the main note. After 20 minutes: A dark, jungly bouquet. Imagine deeps greens punctuated with a waxy white flower and a spicy orange splash here and there. The ginger sets a little fire beneath the floral topnotes, while the honey and vanilla keep the sharpness at bay. After 40 minutes: The ginger has settled down a bit and now everything is more subdued and more blended together as a single scent. This is quite a morpher and one of the most complex blends I've encountered. I was able to detect every note listed in the description at some point during the wet and initial drydown stages. From start to finish, I could visualize this scent rise up out of the bottle, slither across my arm displaying all of its notes and finally coil into a fragrant ball. This scent is one to wear when you're feeling predatory. Fantastic!

Moving counter-clockwise through the room, you come upon the next stage. The backdrop is shredded, and seems to have been torn in a fury. On the remaining half of the canvas, you can barely make out a faded illustration of the sun setting over a pyramid. On the center of the platform, an elaborate golden sarcophagus has been set upright and propped up towards the edge of the stage. Beside it, upon the ground, sits a hooded lantern. A woman's image is painted on the front of the sarcophagus, and upon the gold limned body, a tale is being told in hieroglyphics: scenes of murder, carnage, and grotesque, mad passion. Although you do not know the language, the inscription upon the tomb translates within your mind, and the words burn behind your eyes as if they were written in blood and fire: “The Guardian will never part the veil for her soul. Mighty Sutekh, have pity on us all.” A thin, dark-skinned man wearing a linen loincloth climbs onto the stage. His form is frail and withered, he is impossibly old, yet his long, straight hair is as black as the night skies. With solemn, reverential gravity, he slowly moves the casket lid aside. Within the box, you see a skeletal figure wrapped in stained, ragged cloths, draped in a mauve cloth. The dark-skinned man bends low, and lights the lanterna magica. From within the glass, images begin to form, and glowing alchemical symbols cast their eerie light onto the mummy. As the lights touch the creature, the desiccated body swells, and with horrific, agonizing slowness, a woman's form begins to appear within the wrappings. At her chest, the rotted wrappings burst, exposing sinew and the glinting white bones of her ribs. Her hands reach towards her face, and with a screech of agony and eons-long rage, she tears the gauze from her glittering black eyes. The perfume of life-in-death: embalming herbs, black myrrh, white sandalwood, black orchid, paperwhites, tomb dust, and Moroccan jasmine. In the bottle: Resinous On my wrist, wet: Sweet sandalwood and myrrh made sweeter by the paperwhites and jasmine. I hope these white flowers don't take over. After 20 minutes: Oh my. This is gorgeous. The most delicate parts of the white flowers and myrrh rest on a sandalwood base. There is no sharpness to this blend and only a touch of powder. After 40 minutes: I am in love with this scent. Everything has blended together in to a soft, intimate scent with a touch of sweetness. If a scent can hint at melancholy, this one does exactly that. I can't believe it has white flowers in it. Eshe is feminine blend that does not fit into the categories of resinous or floral, but lies somewhere in between. I'll get a second bottle of this one.

As you come to the final stage, you see a spotlight focused upon a large pile of pitch-black ashes on the center of the floor. A parchment scroll has been tacked to the foot of the stage. It reads: Now I will believe That there are unicorns; that in Arabia There is one tree, the phoenix' throne; one phoenix At this hour reigning there. You catch a whiff of burnt cinnamon, and a whirlwind begins to form within the center of the cold pyre. The ashes rise, condense, and coalesce into the dusky form of a woman. She shakes her body gently, tossing her hair, and the ashes fall from her skin. She is perfect, radiant: not a single cinder mars the flawlessness of her countenance. Her body seems to cast a shadow shaped like a triumphant bird, wings outstretched, onto the blank taupe canvas behind her. Her eyes are closed, and her head is bowed; her expressionless face is enigmatic. Her dark eyes begin to glow, and her mouth turns up in a secretive, intimate smile. She throws back her head and extends her arms, and suddenly the scent of smoldering myrrh assails you. Within moments, the woman explodes into flame, and you see that her face is now a vision of passionate ecstasy. The turbulence of the conflagration whips around her violently, and gouts of flame burst from her body, igniting the canvas behind her. She raises her arms in exultation, and through the flames, you see both the outline of her scorched black skeleton and the shadow of the phoenix triumphant. Three deep, dark myrrhs, smoke, and cinnamon bark. In the bottle: Dark and cinnamon On my wrist, wet: Cinnamon and a hint of sweet resin After 20 minutes: This has, amazingly, faded to a barely recognizable trace of cinnamon and myrrh. Usually, even the slightest hint of cinnamon amps on me. This is very soft and warm-- Priala is not an inferno. After 40 minutes: And Priala has returned to her pristine self. The cinnamon has mostly burned off and left the lovely myrrh in its place. Like I mentioned before, this is a warm scent, but not hot. Beth has done a wonderful job interpreting the cycle of fire and regeneration of the human phoenix.

She, whose lover has been unfaithful. She lashes out in rage, and her heart is filled with fury: fiery saffron, neroli, severe black musk, rose otto, and a harsh splinter of rosemary. In the bottle: Saffron and a bit of rosemary, slightly musky and a little medicinal. On my wrist, wet: I was leery after the impression from the bottle, but once this hit my skin, it changed into something lovely and complex. The individual notes do not smell the way they usually do to me. The rose otto and neroli, usually so soft and rounded to my nose, are sharpened by what must be the rosemary. The black musk seems to provide a slightly sweet base that holds everything together. After 20 minutes: I swear there's just a touch of cassia in this-- something almost spicy. It must be the saffron. Such an odd blend. From reading the description, I was expecting a fiery, musky floral, but this is more of a spicy herbal incense, neither masculine nor feminine, neither soft nor hard. It's vaguely...threatening. After 40 minutes: Khandita ended up being very much an incense blend on me that I like very much, although I'm having trouble expressing exactly why. This is not a passive blend. Considering the description that accompanies Khandita, I think this blend is exceptionally well-realized. It seems just one the verge of erupting into something fiery and uncontrollable. I wouldn't call it a beautiful scent, but it's powerful and commanding, and quite unlike anything I've ever smelled before. I like it right now, but I think this will be a blend that will become outstanding with age.

I'll break from my usual review format because this is a most unusual scent. On me, it starts out painfully sharp and very much a masculine cologne, heavy on the lavender. I get no leather, carnation, or cedar from the blend. After 45 minutes, the sharpness is gone, replaced by a slightly powdery note, but the masculine cologne remains. I like to wear masculine scents, but this one is just a bit much. A bit dad-ish. I tossed it to the man of the house and an amazing thing happened. While it was wet on his skin, it became an intoxicating cloud of leather and smoke with a darkly sweet base note swirling beneath. After an hour, it had mellowed to an incredibly sexy vanilla and leather blend and nothing at all dad-ish. On the contrary, I want to devour him in a most unfilial way. He likes it so much, he ordered his own bottle without asking me to toss one in with my next order.

In the bottle: Red musk, raunchy and dirty. On my wrist, wet: Entirely red musk. After 20 minutes: Red musk and every now and then a whiff of patchouli (fortunately, I like both red musk and patchouli). After 40 minutes: Judgement is still primarily red musk with patchouli and a very faint herbal note beneath. While I love the red musk blends and love a well blended patchouli, this is not how I would envision the Judgement card. The oil could definitely be a wake-up call, do to the overpowering presence of the primal red musk, but I think that, at least with my body chemistry, there are important nuances of this card that are not addressed. As a scent, though, it's a fabulous, sexy musk and I'm so glad I have a bottle.

In the bottle: Woody and fruity, at the same time, almost astringent. Yikes! On my wrist, wet: Orchid and Devil's Trumpet (Datura! Hallucinogenic! Hurrah!) spring out but instead of becoming cloying, they are neutralized by the tonka and coconut meat, which give some weight to the blend. The pathcouli is present as a woody note that crawls up the nose a little and tickles. This stage is very "white flower" on me and I am not terribly fond of it. After 20 minutes: As much as I dislike the initial stage of this blend, it is entirely worth the wait to reach the drydown stage, because here come the pathchouli and resin with something softly green and mossy (I assume this is the myrtle). The white flower blend hasn't completely disappeared, but it stays well in the background, underneath these darker, more subtle notes. Just where white flowers should be. After 40 minutes: After the white flowers finish their prima donna act, they exit the blend and are replaced by a *very* subtle fruitiness that sits atop the patchouli and myrtle, which have softened considerably. The final stage of this blend is not so much floral as the suggestion of a floral (I think this may be the ghost of the orchid). On me, the Dark Delicacies blend is mainly a woody herbal kept from being overly heavy by the addition of floral components that burn off fairly soon into the drydown. A very complex blend and one that showcases Beth's talent for combining potentially overwhelming essences into an amazingly subtle blend. Love it.

In the bottle: Creamy orange blossom, slightly soapy On my wrist, wet: Dry, sharp floral. I can't really distinguish individual notes After 20 minutes: Still holding onto that soapy note, I can make out orange blossom, but no sign of the carnation. After 40 minutes: I wanted Zarita to work on me, but it never really got past the soapy orange blossom on me. Towards the end of the final drydown, there was a hint of spicy carnation, but not enough to change the overall soapy tone of this blend. Hopefully, this is just my chemistry or something that a little aging of the bottle can take care of.

I used Concentration for the first time this morning and was very pleased with the results. I am currently writing my doctoral dissertation and I have made myself a promise to write first thing every day, whether I feel like it or not, even if it's only for half an hour. My biggest problem is that once I sit down to write, I often find it difficult to stay focused on the writing-- my mind wanders to the pile of dirty clothes that needs washed, what we need from the grocery, what's going on the the BPAL forum, etc. Today was one of those days. I anointed my palms with Concentration, cupped my hands in front of my face and breathed in as deeply as I could. I swear, I inhaled the fumes. I felt a little click in my brain, enjoyed the scent for a minute (I agree with the description of this as lemony mint) and then set to work. Call it a placebo effect or call it an effective magical oil-- in the end, I wrote for two straight hours and churned out quite a bit of text. I'm very pleased with the efficacy of Concentration and won't hesitate to use it again to keep my brain on track.

I have a lot of animals and live in a very small house with another full-grown human. All of our boundaries mingle and this can sometimes cause some serious unbalance in the harmony of the household. Two cats who scream at each other irritate the other cats, wake up the humans and make them irritable, which in turn upsets the dog. Since the humans are the ones with the jobs, we are then the ones who carry the negativity out of the house and into the world. Then nobody's happy. In the past, I have done a lot of clearing and purification with sage. I now put Peaceful Home on my windowsills, in the corners where energy gets stuck, in doorways to all the different rooms. As a result, I have seen a strengthening of the balance in the house regarding boundaries and tempers. However, if I slack and do not re-annoint for a long time, the harmony unravels. I've not yet tried this in a oil burner, but I think this would be a pleasant scent to use in that way: it has a distinct scent of lemon, white flowers, and a bit of a soapy note that always makes it smell like I've thoroughly scrubbed down the house when I use it.