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Snake Oil with four mints, bergamot, and green tea. In the bottle: MINT!!! Lots of mint It is a clear refreshing scent. On: Mint squared - lol - but after about 15 minutes it tones down a tiny bit and becomes more of a sensual spicy mint. When I huff my wrist I get an almost citrus/orange kick at the end. The mint seems to mellow more the longer it stays on my skin. Not sharp at all.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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A tiny woman stands in the center of the stage, the perfect woman in miniature, her copper hair bouncing in elegant curls. She is surrounded on all sides by a necropolis of maimed, mutilated stuffed animals, decapitated fashion dolls, and eviscerated wooden figures. It is a strangely ghastly tableau: the disemboweled toys ooze fiberfill, batting, and sawdust from their gaping wounds. In one dainty hand she clutches a shard of glass, and in the other she nimbly twirls a razor blade. Her face is twisted in a grimace of mad ferocity, and she hisses as she brandishes her makeshift weapons at you. “Play with me?” she growls. Soft, yet sociopathic: white carnation, iris, orange blossom, and sugared cream. In the bottle: Sweet cream with orange blossom. Wet: The carnation adds some spice, but it's very sweet and creamy. More floral than the straight milk scents, but more of a white floral than Alice. The orange blossom and cream mix wonderfully on me. Dry down: There's a pepperyness on me, which I think is the carnation and iris. Very creamy, sweet floral.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
