Invidiana
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This decadent chocolate coconut truffle could have only been made by the hands of goblins. Under a thick robe of chocolate is a rich coconut cream with sticky, vanillic benzoin that has an almost caramelized quality, and a shadow of patchouli that whispers of dark intentions. Do not wear this walking into the forest and expect to emerge alive.
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This is golden honey swirled with the thick dark cola syrup of labdanum, the last honeyed rays of sunlight succumbing to dusk, making me wish dark honey cola actually existed. It stays pretty linear and never gets to the point of being cloying. I can't wait to see how it's going to age.
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This is like the olfactory version of a movie scene where fire burns through a piece of paper only to reveal the next scene. It starts out as a conflagration of burning leaves that gradually crumble in the fire and fall to ashes around a single ripe pomegranate, red and juicy and slightly bitter, waiting for Persephone to return to the underworld and taste its forbidden seeds again. Leaves still smolder around the fruit. It is the myth come to life.
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This is mostly fruit on me, with a whisper of patchouli in the background. For some reason my skin amps the sweetness of the fruit so much that I can barely detect the patchouli after it dries down. It turns to pure cloying sugar until the patchouli finally emerges much later. Eel King, you have betrayed me.
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I don't know what shenanigans eleven Kabuki actors might have been up to, but they evidently inspired a gorgeous toasted almond cream with a hit of bourbon and the honeyed undertones of mimosa. Mimosa flowers are supposed to smell like honey and almond (I looked it up since I've never actually smelled one in person). As it dries down, a certain warmth emerges from the subtle hay and sandalwood lying underneath. This is as beautiful as the Edo-era art it reflects.
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Ethereal and misty, this evokes the painting that inspired it, with a veil of sheer vanilla over an enchanted forest of soft woods and mosses with snakelike tendrils of incense that hint at a deeper magic. It is innocence tiptoeing into the depths of ancient Earth. While this is not a Snake Oil scent per se, there are some aspects of it that do echo Snake Oil, particularly in the vanilla and incense. I imagine this that a dryad or any other woodland fairy wandering through the trees would leave a trail of it behind her.
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Frosted porcelain, spun-sugar snow. This evokes the sweet berry blush on a doll’s cheeks in winter, as if she had been sitting by a cold fireplace but came to life, tiptoeing outside. Petals of withered carnations flutter from her vaguely floral-scented dress along with just the faintest dusting of chimney soot. While this smells nothing like Pediophobia, there is a feeling, a theme, that clings to both of them like a phantom.
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Boney Moon: Spiced Chestnut and Honey
Invidiana replied to doomsday_disco's topic in Duets & Menage A Trois
Warm, roasted and honeyed, with a dusting of spice, this was made for the chill of autumn and winter nights. The spices here are soft and add warmth to the chestnut and golden honey without overpowering them. It reminds me of going to our town's holiday festival when I was a kid, warming my hands near the roasted chestnut and, and getting them stuck to the roof of my mouth when I ate them. For me, it's a bottled memory. -
Dead Leaves, Burnt Marshmallows, Clove Cream, and Whiskey
Invidiana replied to Jenjin's topic in Halloweenie
Dead leaves are the first thing an imaginary October wind blows out of the bottle, as with all of the Dead Leaves scents, and as much as I love this note alone, as it dries down it gets seriously elevated by roasted marshmallows, down to their crusts of burnt sugar, vanilla cream with the warmth of clove, and a subtle splash of whiskey. The outdoor and indoor elements of autumn are swirled together in an ultimate merging of atmospheric and gourmand notes. -
I lost myself in a fog of heady white florals that took me to the vampire-infested streets of Anne Rice's mythical version of New Orleans. This is not an indolic scent, but lush and humid, an enchanted haze that lingers for hours and hours. Something about Midnight Fog reminds me of my dearly departed Midnight (which I will hoard forever). While they don't seem to have any notes in common, the eerily beautiful perfume of white florals blooming in the middle of the night are a share element of their genealogy.
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Swirled with caramel and golden amber, this is a comforting mug of coffee for the bitter cold. The coffee is more of a backdrop for the caramel and amber syrups that never verge into cloyingly sweet territory. There is also something off an incense undertone to the amber, giving it a slightly mystical feel. This makes me smell like a really expensive latte that lingers far longer than a venti whatever from Starbucks.
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This is like holding a steaming cup of coffee, infused with cardamom and vanilla, up to your nose and deeply inhaling, with tendrils of incense in the background along with a breath of pine from outdoors. Coffee and pine only sound discordant. They actually merge very well, possibly because they are bridged by the myrrh smoke. In the face of all the snow that has been coming down over here lately, this is so enveloping and comforting.
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This takes me right to a library where I'm warming my cold hands, breathing in the warm and bitter steam of espresso, poring over the pages of an old book whose cracked bindings and yellowed pages smell like centuries of history. The vanillic undertone of the paper adds another aromatic element to the espresso. I could get lost in those pages for hours. Of course libraries don't allow coffee, but bear with my fantasy here.
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This is an ethereal veil of snow and white musk, starting out with a blast of bitter cold that gradually softens into a white blanket whose chill clings close to the skin. Everything is white, white and more white. Chionophobia is not so much snow itself as it is the phantom of snow that haunts those who fear it.
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Pages yellowed with age are barely legible in the amber glow of beeswax candles, and dusty leather bindings are covered in the wax of a thousand more candles that have long since burned out. There is a faint smell of ink that touched paper centuries before. Among stacks and stacks that never end, tendrils of incense linger in air that is musty with memory. If someone bottled the lost Library of Alexandria, this would be it.