Heretic

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.