Invidiana
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Devastatingly beautiful, this is the image of a dusky pink rose soaking up the last honeyed rays of daylight, with shadows of nightfall encroaching. Its petals are the color of the antique velvet armchair seen through a Victorian window. When the deep honey of sunset entwines with shadows of laburnum surrounding those petals, it evokes both the last glimpse of sun and the first breath of evening.
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High Noon Heliotrope
Invidiana replied to doomsday_disco's topic in Single Notes, Layering Scents & Simple Blends
This is an unfurling of petals redolent with the scents of a late summer sunset. Heliotrope may be a violet flower, but its overtones of citrus are orange as the last rays of sun blazing across an August sky, with a slightly vanillic undertone and soft spices beneath that foretell that first yellowing of leaves before they begin to drift to the ground. It has a feel of dry grasses and drying blossoms. The final heliotropes of the season have soaked in what remains of a waning sun, and are holding on to that warmth until summer fades to fall. -
Rose Moon: Pink Roses and White Sandalwood Lotion
Invidiana replied to doomsday_disco's topic in Lotion
Cascades of soft pink rose petals, velvety to the touch, rain down on a bed of soft sandalwood. They blush with a soft perfume that is slightly powdery in nostalgic way that has the same enveloping kind of comfort as a floral quilt that was made by a grandmother's hands and has been loved for years. This is the pink of childhood dresses and ribbons, of icing roses piped ever so delicately onto a cake, of that beloved rosy armchair with the sightly worn velvet upholstery. It lingers like a benevolent ghost. -
Tears and ecstasy scream silently into the humid New Orleans evening. The sidewalk is slick with rain and scattered with trampled flower petals, bruised but still fragrant, holding on to whatever beauty is left among the wreckage. Pure white blossoms of night-blooming cereus open into starbursts among tangles of leaves and vines. Somewhere, in the back of a van, a vampire strums his guitar in the dark, a half-empty glass of cognac languishing on a table in the musky shadows of a place forever imbued with sex and agony. He inhales the perfume of the night and exhales with lonely notes that flow like raindrop tears streaking down the window.
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Pale, cold and spectral, Gabriella captures Lestat's mother (who he ultimately brings into the Blood) as she was centuries ago and will remain for eternity. She appears against a backdrop of mountains shrouded in mist. Her marble face is freshly washed in perfumed Italian soap, redolent of white lily petals, and scents of the forest cling to her preternatural skin. There is something of a chill that cannot be explained by the heavy snows in which her son felled eight wolves. Frosted sage and moss haunt the mists around her, resting upon the softest nuance of saddle leather. There is a strange nostalgia to this scent that can touch even someone who never had to survive a winter in a castle without fire. She is a vampire, and the warmth has long since left her body.
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This is Lestat growling into the microphone, seducing legions of alt kids and dark souls who want to be consumed by him. He hungers for them in a way they could not imagine. Leather, blacker than the depths of night and smeared with greasepaint, dominates the stage. It mingles with heat rising from underneath. Hundreds of bodies are slick with sweat, salty with ambergris and glistening in flashes of stage light between the shadows. Gold velvet from his vintage pants, plush with a tinge of something powdery and nostalgic from hanging too long in a dusty closet, is crushed in human hands as he bodysurfs the crowd. Body heat pulses more and more under the leather as arms reach for him through a haze of incense, but other vampires are silently watching among the frenzied fans. They are always watching.
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Born into the mortal world as Andrei, later called Amadeo by his maker and sometime lover Marius, the vampire Armand was only seventeen when he became immortal. Innocence veils his bloodlust. There is a dichotomy to his scent, which portrays the young, angelic facade of a young man in the late 15th century, embodied by pale iris petals resting on sheer white musk, tendrils of frankincense clinging to his skin after passing outside a Roman cathedral. He could pass for a fresh-facd altar boy, but no one can see what lies on the other side of his soul. The mask of teenage purity has long since been adulterated. Underneath is an incense too dark to rise to heaven, entwining with ancient woods and resins from Rome as Marius knew it in the time of Augustus, scorched with clove and stained with blood. The lest vestiges of his human form fade into a memory of mist and flowers against the hot rush of sanguine desire.
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Louis is blood and the heady magnolia blooms of New Orleans entwined with sensual sandalwood. Faint remnants of human life are flashbacks of once being mortal—coffee dregs, a splash of bay rum, deep vetiver of the earth—overcome by something dark and ancient. There is something of a muskiness that warms flesh which is otherwise cold and undead. As the night wears on, it becomes a veil of shadow that clings long after the vampires have sated themselves.
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Flower Moon: Ylang Ylang and White Sugar Lotion
Invidiana replied to doomsday_disco's topic in Lotion
The heady and humid perfume of yang ylang blossoms, beautiful enough in itself, is covered in crystallized sugar that might have been ever so subtly touched with vanilla. Summer in the tropics is captured in candied ylang petals. I really wish this could be released as a perfume. Of course, I think just about every single lotion should be released as a perfume, so I might be dreaming too much. -
Flower Moon: Calla Lily and Purple Musk
Invidiana replied to doomsday_disco's topic in Duets & Menage A Trois
Gauzy twilight shrouds white lilies that had been gazing wistfully at the sun. Shades of dusk cast their spell. Adulterated by purplish shadows, the aroma of lily petals changes from the pure white of innocence to something darker and more mysterious, smelling faintly of incense smoke. She who was once a flower girl has blossomed into a courtesan, her lips stained. The lilies have been bewitched. -
Dusk falls in deep spring. Petals of ylang ylang, moonflower, and stargazer lily, gilded by the last honeyed drops of sunlight, unfurl in a symphony of night. Spectral moths fluttering above them forget their longing for the moon as they and the bats that hunt them are lured in by the nectar of agave flowers. A lone honeybee that strayed far from the hive, its legs dusted in pollen, slumbers in one of the blossoms. What is an ending for the bee is dawn for the bats and moths and night birds that sing to the encroaching shadows. Somewhere, dark incense plumes rise, a shroud over the earth that dreams below.
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Flower Moon: Fossilized Amber and Wildflower Nectar
Invidiana replied to doomsday_disco's topic in Duets & Menage A Trois
Golden and nectarous, this takes the nectar of Jurassic flowers blooming in humidity and immortalizes their perfume in amber that has survived millions of years. There is a honeyed aspect of something that is temptingly sweet but not quite honey. This is honey in its most naive form, the pale gold that lures insects as petals unfurl under a morning sun. It merges with the depth of amber that remembers scenes from an unspoiled Earth. Prehistoric insects that had just fed on nectar and landed on tree trunks must have spent their last moments luxuriating in the afterglow of sweetness and precious sap that would fossilize and preserve them for eternity. -
Sumptuous, crimson, and forbidden. Rose petals red as the blood pulsing through the veins of entangled lovers are wrapped in plush velvet. Ancient tendrils of amber and frankincense incense rise through the dust of shadows, between walls permeated with the smoke of a thousand censers. It is a poem, long forgotten, about a passion that endures.
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When the world outside is overcast, this envelops you in a fuzzy pinkish-gray blanket that has just tumbled out of the dryer and has all the comfort of a favorite stuffed animal. Faded purple and pink flowers swirl in a steaming cup of tea with a gentle breath of rain from outside. Even the grays of the sky are softened by clouds. There is no storm looming, as Eyesore would probably fear, just steady rain and a blanket fort to hide under until he glimpses the sun again.
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This is an unapologetically pink confection for a character whose entire personality is pink. Blushing vanilla and sweet acorn are folded over fragrant wild strawberries and the starchy sweetness of red bean paste, covered in toasted, caramelized almonds, then dusted in sugar and sprinkled with the first pink clover flowers and apple blossoms of the season. It is warm and comforting enough for autumn and winter, but still blossoming for spring and summer.