Lunar Boadicea the Victorious 2012

At this eerie hour, wondrous things are said to happen in an enchanted forest. Some go there to wish for strange things, others to curse their neighbor, the wicked mother-in-law, or their unfaithful partner. It has never worked out.
What can one expect from a scent called "Lunar"? After all, one might hope for a moonlit path in a clearing, where bony fir trees sway in the wind. In the distance, a little owl calls, and on an old oak, a nightingale perches, trilling its love-drunk song. One could hope for silvery shimmering moonlight, for a flickering fragrance that has mysteriously captured the night.
But here? Here there are no night elves playing a harmonious tune on the shawm, nor does a white stag majestically stand in the meadow. No, some piglet has dumped its compost bin in the clearing, filled with unidentifiable fruit that is already fermenting. The wild boars and the nocturnal badger family no longer want to eat the fruit, for they know what happens when the alcoholic fermentation has already begun. Then they stumble drunkenly through the night, and in the distance, the wolves howl....

There are no will-o'-the-wisps flickering through the night, and fireflies have turned off their lights, for under a tree, a fat troll snores, rubbing his sweaty feet with birch tar every day and making calf wraps out of cinnamon cloth. He also burps lavender bubbles.

The wife of the forest troll has fainted because she couldn't handle the chaos of the booming scent notes; the troll husband rushes over and fans her with flowers, which only makes her worse. Thus, she mumbles: “And this for 480 gold pieces...”
Finally, Rumpelstiltskin comes dancing along and sings: “Oh how good that no one knows, that I spun Rumpelstiltskin!”