Cypriol
Rose
Sandalwood
Oud
Animalic notes
Coniferous woods
Saffron
Amber
Bergamot
Fruity notes
Torfdoen
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7
The Tale of the Thorn King
In the realm of fairy tales, word spread of a type of wild rose at the foot of a mountain in a place that was always in shadow, from which no shoot had ever been taken. The boldest speculations literally surrounded this plant. Vitality. Indescribable grace. But also dark antics of ghastly wildness, sensuous enchantment, and death could be gleaned from the many voices and stories, each with its own version. Yes, even a mythical creature was said to confront anyone who passed the entrance to the forest. Only one brave woman and her loyal companion were known to have set out to turn the most remote corners of Italy upside down, to uncover the legendary goddess shrub and spread the word. More light, and to soften the terrible inclination of the prankster population, was their motivation (Note, - the prankster population). The results are documented and can be studied for everyone's edification and joy in the sacristy at Parfumo.
They also spurred that hero or nobleman, or better: an unsuspecting globetrotter, to embark on the arduous journey to capture a whiff of this obscure yet exceedingly alluring specimen and bring it into the world. He came into possession of a map, under unclear circumstances, that described the way to the rose sanctuary and set out to leave his small village and seek the remote steppe. He was a cheerful fellow. He thought he would surely win this rose for himself.
He was not seen for a long time, and it was believed he had perished, but then he returned to the village, visibly changed. He spoke of a field of dry thorny brush through which he had passed, with shoots that had never been granted the bloom of a flower. He spoke of a desolate landscape, as if pricked by needles, and when one looked into his eyes, one found oneself reflected there. Murky veils surrounded him, vapors constricted his throat and irritated his eyes, yet he continued to greedily inhale the intoxicating, sharp smoke that flowed toward him.
The thicket of sickles and bristles seemed insurmountable. Exhausted, he sank down and cursed his misfortune.
Surely having already lost sufficient grip on his senses, a revelation or something of the sort must have come to him. At least his descriptions become incoherent at this point.
The tendrils were said to have opened, and he stepped toward the rocky mass where a mirror was laid upon a thorny throne, framing the brave man's likeness - but also not.
He was said to have seen himself - and please forgive me, dear reader, for recounting the anecdote in its ridiculous entirety - amidst endless shoots and woody shrubs as their origin and source of life, as the king of the rose sanctuary under the shady mountain.
And so he was said to have endured for many hours, unable to break free.
Just imagine the scene.
P.S. It should also be noted that our hero suffers a 'relapse' into that former state of oblivion in well-ventilated washrooms, smelling of garments and staring into compartments. He is then unresponsive for several hours.
They also spurred that hero or nobleman, or better: an unsuspecting globetrotter, to embark on the arduous journey to capture a whiff of this obscure yet exceedingly alluring specimen and bring it into the world. He came into possession of a map, under unclear circumstances, that described the way to the rose sanctuary and set out to leave his small village and seek the remote steppe. He was a cheerful fellow. He thought he would surely win this rose for himself.
He was not seen for a long time, and it was believed he had perished, but then he returned to the village, visibly changed. He spoke of a field of dry thorny brush through which he had passed, with shoots that had never been granted the bloom of a flower. He spoke of a desolate landscape, as if pricked by needles, and when one looked into his eyes, one found oneself reflected there. Murky veils surrounded him, vapors constricted his throat and irritated his eyes, yet he continued to greedily inhale the intoxicating, sharp smoke that flowed toward him.
The thicket of sickles and bristles seemed insurmountable. Exhausted, he sank down and cursed his misfortune.
Surely having already lost sufficient grip on his senses, a revelation or something of the sort must have come to him. At least his descriptions become incoherent at this point.
The tendrils were said to have opened, and he stepped toward the rocky mass where a mirror was laid upon a thorny throne, framing the brave man's likeness - but also not.
He was said to have seen himself - and please forgive me, dear reader, for recounting the anecdote in its ridiculous entirety - amidst endless shoots and woody shrubs as their origin and source of life, as the king of the rose sanctuary under the shady mountain.
And so he was said to have endured for many hours, unable to break free.
Just imagine the scene.
P.S. It should also be noted that our hero suffers a 'relapse' into that former state of oblivion in well-ventilated washrooms, smelling of garments and staring into compartments. He is then unresponsive for several hours.
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