Magical Truthsaying Bastard Shadesong (shadesong) wrote,
Magical Truthsaying Bastard Shadesong

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BPAL: *squeaks* *falls over*

So, uh, anyone doing a decant circle for the Good Omens and Stardust scents?

I was seriously considering just flat-out ordering all five LEs, because I hate missing out. But. Crazy talk. So.

EDIT: Ordered Leo and Gibbous Moon. Getting imps ofeverything else (except the Sun, Victoria, and Yvaine) from tempestteapot's decant circle. So tempted to buy some of the Good Omens ones unsniffed, but I will be a good girl.

I go sleep now.

August is a month of reflection. It is the month of rest before the harvest, and it holds for us a time between toils, a brief period of relaxation before we take up the burden of our work again. It is the Time of the Phoenix, a season of celebrating health, vitality, warmth and joy, but it is also the time at which the Corn God dies for the sake of the land, his blood soaking the earth to ensure a bountiful harvest in the fall.

The Full Red Moon of August was named thus by some Native American tribes because as the moon rises, it dons a reddish veil, visible through the hot, sweltering summer evening haze. Our blend for this Moon mixes traditional lunar oils with the warmth of amber, red musk, and heliotrope, the russet haze of dragon's blood resin, sunflower, and crushed orange peel, with a dusting of summertime herbs: chamomile, rue, elder flower and marigold.

Mkay. Orange is bad. Chamomile, I'm not sure about. Amber, red musk and sunflower are good. Nyargh. This may be too much of a wildcard. Decant circle.


Witch-herbs, crushed golden flowers, and a man-made-dragon's surly musk lightened by the scent of the blossoms and unearthly incense that clings to the Faerie Queen's hair. Dragon's blood musk, ambergris, sunflower, chrysanthemum, muguet, and rue, with gingered lily, moonflower, bluebell, peony, nightwort, and white rose.

*sigh* Again. Lots of wildcards in there. Lots of floral. Decant circle.

Fixed Fire: the essence of pride.
Egyptian amber, walnut bark, chamomile, frankincense, and saffron.

I am all about the saffron. I may buy a bottle of this.

Heliotrope, amber, almond flower, frangipani, cedar, and calamus.

Too floral.

Moonflower, Madonna lily, orris, white ginger, cucumber, hyacinth, and Irish moss.

Argh. Moonflower bad. Ginger, cucumber and moss *really good*. Maybe bottle.

The mind of Agnes Nutter was so far adrift in Time that she was considered pretty mad even by the standards of seventeenth-century Lancashire, where mad prophetesses were a growth industry.

Gunpowder, charred wood, smoke, and rusty nails.

Totally. I am so there.

Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. Two of these were wrong; Heaven is not England, whatever certain poets may have thought, and angels are sexless unless they really want to make an effort.

Ethereal musk, blonde woods, and dusty Bible accord.

Seems like it could be too light for my tastes. Worth a shot, though.

Nothing about him looked particularly demonic, at least by classical standards. No horns, no wings. Admittedly he was listening to a Best of Queen tape, but no conclusions should be drawn from this because all tapes left in a car for more than a fortnights metamorphose into Best of Queen albums. No particularly demonic thoughts were going through his head. In fact, he was wondering vaguely who Moey and Chandon were.

Crowley had dark hair, and good cheekbones, and he was wearing snakeskin shoes, or at least presumably he was wearing shoes, and he could do really weird things with his tongue. And, whenever he forgot himself, he had a tendency to hiss.

Infernal musk, red patchouli, lilac cologne, mahogany, lemon rind, oakmoss, leather, and vanilla husk.

I am so there. Yeah, lemon rind, but Torture King has lime rind, and that doesn't screw it up for me.

Shadwell had turned out to be about five feet high and wore clothes which, no matter what they actually were, always turned up in your short-term memory as an old mackintosh. The old man may have all his own teeth, but only because no-one else could possibly have wanted them; just one of them, placed under the pillow, would have made the Tooth Fairy hand in its wand.

He appeared to live entirely on sweet tea, condensed milk, hand-rolled cigarettes, and a sort of sullen internal energy. Shadwell had a Cause, while he followed with the full resources of his soul and his Pensioner's Concessionary Travel Pass. He believed in it. It powered him like a turbine.

Roll-ups, mildewed raincoat, sweet tea, and condensed milk.

Oh, I must see what this is like.

She finished the drink, hefted the sword over one shoulder, and looked around at the puzzled factions, who now encircled her completely. 'Sorry to run out on you, chaps,' she said. 'Would love to stay and get to know you better.'

The men in the room suddenly realized they didn't want to know her better. She was beautiful, but she was beautiful in the way a forest fire was beautiful: something to be admired from a distance, but not up close.

And she held her sword, and she smiled like a knife.

Red ginger, black spices, patchouli, honeysuckle, and three blood-soaked red musks.


Please let the patchouli not drown everything else out. Because DUDE.

"Eyes, eyes! New eyes for old!" shouted a tiny woman in front of a table covered with bottles and jars filled with eyes of every kind and color.

"Instruments of music from a hundred lands!"

"Penny whistles! Tuppenny hums! Threepenny choral anthems!"

"Try your luck! Step right up! Answer a simple riddle and win a wind-flower!"

"Everlasting lavender! Bluebell cloth!"

"Bottled dreams, a shilling a bottle!"

"Coats of night! Coats of twilight! Coats of dusk!"

"Swords of fortune! Wands of power! Rings of eternity! Cards of grace! Roll-up, roll-up, step this way!"

"Salves and ointments, philtres and nostrums!"

Otherworldy golden incense, blooming wind-flowers, everlasting lavender, bluebell, a faint whiff of exotic sugared candies, and fae mist upon wet green grass.

Certainly! More up Elayna's alley than mine.

Tristran put down his wooden cup of tea, and stood up, offended.

"What," he asked, in what he was certain were lofty and scornful tones, "would possibly make you imagine that my lady-love would have sent me on some foolish errand?"

The little man stared up at him with eyes like beads of jet. "Because that's the only reason a lad like you would be stupid enough to cross the border into Faerie. The only ones who ever come here from your lands are the minstrels, and the lovers, and the mad. And you don't look like much of a minstrel, and you're - pardon me saying so, lad, but it's true - ordinary as cheese-crumbs. So it's love, if you ask me."

"Because," announces Tristran, "every lover is in his heart a madman, and in his head a minstrel."

Dust on your trousers, mud on your boots, and stars in your eyes: redwood, tonka bean, white sandalwood, lemon peel, patchouli, rosewood, coriander, and crushed mint.

Hm! Coriander! Mint! Worth a shot.

Every boy in the village was in love with Victoria Forester. And many a sedate gentleman, quietly married with grey in his beard, would stare at her as she walked down the street, becoming, for a few moments, a boy once more, in the spring of his years with a spring in his step.

Graceful vanilla musk, tea rose, and stargazer lily.

Rose + lily != crazy delicious.

On a rocky mountain pass, on the southernmost slopes of Mount Belly, the witch-queen reined in her goat-drawn chariot and stopped and sniffed the chilly air.

The myriad stars hung cold in the sky above her.

Her red, red lips curved up into a smile of such beauty, such brilliance, such pure and perfect happiness that it would have frozen your blood in your veins to have seen it. "There," she said. "She is coming to me."

And the wind of the mountain pass howled about her triumphantly, as if in answer.

Wild plum, red musk, tuberose, calla lily, heliotrope, pimento, ylang ylang and beeswax beneath a dark haze of sinister purple-hued incense smoke.

*whimper* If the ylang behaves? Ohhhh yes.

She was sprawled, awkwardly, beneath the hazel tree, and she gazed up at Tristran with a scowl of complete unfriendliness.

She hefted another clod of mud at him, menacingly, but did not throw it.

Her eyes were red and raw. Her hair was so fair it was almost white, her dress was of blue silk which shimmered in the candlelight. She glittered as she sat there.

The high, crystalline scent of a star-filled night with blue lavender and lush magnolia.

Nope. This would be harsh and heinous on me.
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