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Archive: BLUD (original)


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An exotically dusky resinous perfume evoking an aura of Autumnal decline, we’ve included a number of precious expensive ingredients so grab this one while you can! Multiple types of Dragon’s Blood blended with oud, wormwood, labdanum and various amber attars and EOs provide a shroud for a decaying apple, with further frightful accents of majmua, benzoin and storax. To make you the evilly alluring equal of such a mysterious atmosphere we’ve enhanced this with our exclusive SEXPIONAGE pheromone blend, a Copulin-heavy *sex bomb* mixture, with a smidgen of Androstenone to inspire sexually aggressive behavior in both you and your mate; softened with Alpha-Androstenol to steer the blend in a happy, playful direction. Fans of our Bewitching Hour fragrance will be positively FANGful to receive our BLUD! 


APPLE ~ Love, healing, fertility, good luck , happiness, immortality, fortelling spells.
DRAGON’S BLOOD ~ Entices errant lovers to return, increases power of other ingredients. Love, protection, exorcism, potency.

EARTH ~ Grounding, centering, protection, renewal, reincarnation, life.
OUD (Agarwood) ~ Love, aphrodisia, spirituality, health.
WORMWOOD ~ Divination, protection, love, calling spirits.
LABDANUM ~ One of the oldest known perfume ingredients. Considered holy, used in tribute, and as a sense-memory tool to stimulate the subconscious. Said to revive long forgotten memories and feelings.
AMBER ~ Fertility, creativity, love, luck, riches.
BENZOIN ~ Prosperity, astral projection, purification.
STORAX ~ Healing, mental acuity, relaxation, sensual, love drawing, deflection of negativity.


Created by: Mara Fox

Description: Julie (luna65)

Label art: vintage film publicity featuring Bela Lugosi

October 2017



You would have missed it if you weren’t looking.


A weathered wooden sign, wired to an equally decrepit fence, bearing the word BLUD. Underneath the sign is a basket of apples, and compared to the fence and the sign, the basket looks suspiciously new.


The street is so quiet, and you look around wondering if this is a Halloween prank of some kind, as it so strange a thing to encounter. You were only looking for a shortcut home, a walk which might offer a more picturesque landscape than the center of town, crowded and noisy.


BLUD, you read. Blud? What is that? The sign is lettered in a crude fashion, the paint black upon stained wood, it would be difficult to discern the word were it not rendered in uppercase script. Then the scent hits you. Looking within the basket, you see it is full of apples, and the apples are bright red with streaks of a darker shade which looks almost black. The smell is intense, a sweetness just on the edge of cloying, overripe. Again, you look around, wondering at the meaning of the sign.


The house which the fence surrounds is no different from any other house in the neighborhood: aged from the elements, with flaking paint and cloudy windowglass. Some neighborhoods age gracefully, others slide into a decline they may never acknowledge. This house is shuttered against the inquiries of ordinary daylight, against your curiosity and yet - you are moved, somehow, to investigate,


But first.


You reach down and take one of the apples. It is heavy, yet also small, and the word which comes to mind is stunted. Its’ mass feels soft, as if it is indeed going rotten. If so its’ decay is well-disguised because the skin is so vivid and shiny.


Revulsion and inquisitiveness fight for control of your actions. You place the apple back in the basket even as you are so tempted to take a bite. And why would you want to do that anyway?


But you do.


You stare at the house for a few minutes, trying to discern any signs of habitation.


Just go up and knock on the door, ask whoever answers what this means.


But you don’t.


The sun is slanting into your eyes, into the windows, setting them alight with a syrupy glow. The air slowly cools and the wind murmurs, rustling leaves both fallen on the ground and dying on the trees.


The trees.


...apple tree?


You open the gate and walk into the yard, following the outer edge of the fence to the back of the house. The property slopes down and away from the structure and after a few strides you see it.


It is indeed an apple tree, twisted and gnarled. Or so it would seem.


Because at that moment the wind picks up and you hear its’ secret. You are not meant to, of course, but it is so eager for you, eagerly waiting for you to come closer.


Blood, it says.


An apple drops from it with a thud. It makes a wet sound as it falls into the grass. It echoes like a heartbeat in the stillness. The waning light throws the branches and trunk into stark relief against a blue sky which seems relentless and vast. Cruel and indifferent.


Blood, it says again, in the voice of the wind and the leaves.


You understand that you are meant to be enthralled in the way in which wrong things, cursed trees, and haunted places call to anyone near enough to feel the virulent allure.


You stand there, knowing that you are close, but not quite close enough to succumb. But at that moment it holds you in its’ mystery. Your hands clench and your jaw tenses as you grit your teeth, waiting for the courage to step back from whatever it is the tree really is, to turn and run as fast as you can.


You only hope it happens before the sun goes down.

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