#sandal wood oil

[dearorpheus]

"In ways that are often hard to articulate but run through everything, my work has been deeply informed by my own experiences. I have been reading Homer throughout my adult life. Whenever I hear blustering winds and rain-storms, surging rivers or choppy seas, when I watch a flock of geese or a swooping hawk, when I walk through rustling woods or up a mountainside, I know I am inside the world of Homeric similes. Even the most trivial moments of daily life remind me of Homer. I notice that my feet are not "well-oiled" whenever I tie my sandals on. I cannot watch my dog happily rolling in mulch without thinking of Achilles, prostrated in grief and tossing around in the dust. More seriously, the poem gives me a language to understand my deepest emotions and those of people around me. When I weep for my mother, who died recently in a distant land, I remember the grief of Achilles and of Priam. The Iliad is with me always."

— Emily Wilson, in the translator's note of her Iliad

[pixielover1]

Wild Flowers.

Part one. Part two. Part three.

Monster!König x Reader.

The sun illuminated the quiet hillside like a stunning oil painting. You stirred awake as the beams of light slipped past your thin curtains. Yawning, you sat up in your bed. Waking up early was exciting today because it was finally time to harvest your crops. You quickly put on a floral sundress and a pair of sandals. Pulling on your gardening hat, you practically skipped outside, moving to the back of your quaint cabin. The wind nipped at your skin but the sun shooed it away with its warm rays. Your chest rose slowly as you took in a deep breath of the crisp morning air. You redirected your attention to the flourishing plants and a smile snuck onto your face.

You carefully tended to your crops, clipping off ripe fruits and veggies as you leaned over your developed plot. Gentle, melodic hums escaped your mouth as you tossed the produce into your woven basket, the birds singing with you. It was such a beautiful morning, but to König, you were the most beautiful.

In the camouflage of the woods he watched you through the foliage, panting. The sound of your soft music gave him goosebumps, his furred tail whacking against poor trees that concealed him. König was a victim of secret experiments when he was in the military. The underground organization subjected him to a series of operations, changing his DNA in a remarkable scientific feat. But what was supposed to be dog-like enhancements for battle, resulted in an uncontrollable lycan. König tore through the illegal facility shortly after he was deemed “ready” to be a weapon. Since that day he roamed the mountain side, hunting like an average wolf. Nothing resembling benignity was inside him, he was simply a wild beast. Until he found you. Humanity struck him the first time he spotted you foraging in the woods. In that moment his heart began to beat again, for you. Since then, he’s been keeping a watchful eye on you. Your life is peaceful and he likes to believe he is the cause of it.

Your focus on your activity was light until you heard a loud hiss. Startled, you look down to see an aggravated snake. You jump to your feet and wearily create space between you and the reptile. There was no way you were going to pick the thing up, but you also couldn't leave it here to eat your plants or mess up the roots. You kept your eyes on the snake until a shadow was casted upon you. From your left, a large hand comes down to grab the rowdy snake. It’s thrown deep into the woods and the threat is diminished. A small ping of relief fills in you until you realize. What the fuck just grabbed the snake?

Your neck cranes up to see a drooling König, his chest heaving. Your heart drops and you’re stuck in place. König stands at a firm 6'10”, dwarfing anyone's height. Wolf-like ears stick out from his short hair that was tangled with twigs and dirt. He wore a battered t-shirt, stained with what you believed to be blood and soil. He looked terrifying even as his tail swung behind him through his ripped up pants. He was delighted to finally be face to face with you. The way your face was illuminated as a gorgeous golden brown by the sun made his heart flutter like never before, even if you were also cowering in fear.

Your legs twitch as if begging you to run. So just then, you did. You turn and bolt into the forest, running faster than you knew you could. The beast was hot on your heels, easily catching up to your sprint. You kept up for as long as you could before your face harshly met the rough soil. König lingered above you, keeping your body pinned to the ground. Helpless whines escape your mouth as you assume this is your death day. You can hear his deep, shaky breaths as his body covers yours. At your side you catch a view of his huge hands and murderous claws. Your breath hitches and you squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the fatal blow. But it never came. Instead, König lifted you up and threw you over his shoulder as if you weighed nothing. Filled with a burst of bravery, you beat on his back and screamed at him to let you go. Opening your eyes, you gulp as you see how high up you were from the woods’ floor. He carried you back to your cottage quickly, not responding to any of your protests. He followed your scent as he pushed your front door open, accidentally breaking a hinge. He gently places you on your bed, the action a stark contrast to his appearance. He stands at the foot of your bed and you notice how he barely fits into your house. He has to bend his neck to keep his head from hitting your ceiling.

When he catches the shimmer of your sweet tears, something wakes within him. Feelings along the lines of sympathy and lust. His eyes reflect what he is feeling too easily, he is truly an open book. You remain on your bed, trembling from being subject to his gaze that is desperately trying to undress you. The silence breaks when his hand twitches, reaching towards you. You whimper, still assuming the worst. As much as he enjoys the tempting sounds, he knows he doesn’t want you to feel this way. His large fur-covered frame lets out a low growl and with the same speed he used to catch you moments before, he leaves your house. The sun was still kind and warm as you were left breathless and stunned from the freakish encounter.

Hello! This is my first story, i hope you enjoy. I am open to constructive criticism. :)

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

141 Headcanons: On Holiday

John Price is 100% a dad type. He likes golfing and fishing and sailing. Activities that let him unwind, sometimes make new friends in the shape of other middle-aged men at the country club or at the docks or at the lake. Rents a little cabin by the lake, where you can take a soak or sunbathe, while he goes out with his little fishing boat and try (and fail) to catch something nice for dinner.

Johnny MacTavish is an adventurous type. He likes hiking and camping, stuff that lets him stay busy, and will definitely explore some forest or national park or mountain range. But he also likes fun activities. Music festivals, for example. He'll definitely book you all-inclusive 3-day-long tickets even though there's only one or two artists/bands you want to see, just so you can have that experience and have fun together.

Kyle Garrick is a family lad. His family is big and loving and they book a little trip every year somewhere fun. It might be a new destination, or it might be somewhere they've been before, or maybe somewhere to visit family. But he loves bringing his love along, go do all the touristy things, see all the landmarks, take loads of pictures, try new restaurants and new food, and do cultural things like reading all the plaques on statues and fountains and monuments.

Simon Riley likes peace and quiet. That's the jist of it. Needs it, in fact. So, prepare to rent a little historical cottage in the Cotswold, or maybe a beach condo, or a cabin in the woods. Doesn't matter, what matters it's that it's fairly isolated, with no neighbors to really bother him. He can sleep in late, with no one to force him to do things he doesn't want to do, no schedule to uphold, no people to answer to. He'll roll out of bed at noon, make himself tea and go sit outside and feell the breeze on his skin for once.

Crack headcanons: Beach Day Episode™️

John Price tends to burn, instead of tan, surprisingly. Probably because his uniforms tend to cover him from neck to toes, leaving only his hands and face showing... And if you'd expect his face to be immune to burning, you'd be wrong. Especially because he's terrible at applying sunblock. By the time you notice, his cheeks, nose and forehead are red, and there are white lines around his muttonchops/beard where the sunblock didn't absorb... so he just looks ridiculous.

Johnny MacTavish likes to say he's not English/British... until he goes on holiday to southern Europe and he's suddenly the perfect example of the stereotypical English tourist. Football jersey, denim shorts, socks and slides/sandals, his entire skin is burned to a crisp and red, and, of course, he's wearing the most stupid-looking sunglasses you'll ever see... And then he gets to the beach, takes off his shorts and he's wearing a red speedo.

Kyle Garrick is 100% the type to disappear off his towel while you're sunbathing and, by the time you notice, he's in a completely different side of the beach playing beach paddle ball, beach volleyball or beach football with a group of other blokes or even with little kids. And he does all this while wearing his little cap (but backwards) and while absolutely covered in tanning oil. Does he need it? No. But he likes the feel of it.

Simon Riley would not be caught dead in swimming trunks or a speedo. The man needs full coverage. He's in a wet/surf suit and wearing a facekini WITH his stupid dad sunglasses and, maybe even, a visor. He gets fidgety if he has to sit in his towel for too long so he's also the type who'll go for a walk out of nowhere, down the beach, and, eventually, cross paths with an Asian grandma who's wearing the same exact outfit as him.

[talesofedo]

Image and text from this page.

Throughout the Edo Period, Japan was largely closed off from the rest of the world, relying solely on its limited domestic resources. As a result of this, reuse and recycling were a natural part of life with almost all daily items experiencing multiple life cycles. At the forefront of this 250-year period of sustainability were professions that centered around repairing and repurposing everyday goods and materials, giving new life to items that would today end up in landfills. In his book, “Just Enough,” Azby Brown introduces a number of the professions that led to this period of sustainability and we’ve listed some of our favorites below.

Tinkers

Tinkers were local craftsmen who repaired damaged pots and kettles. Often found carrying portable forges and bellows on their backs, they used scrap metal to repair holes and cracks that would otherwise render these essential household items useless.

Scrap metal dealers would purchase unrepairable items from tinkers and exchange candies and toys with local kids for nails and other usable metal scraps they found while playing.

Paper lantern and umbrella repairmen

While most umbrellas in modern-day Tokyo are quickly lost or broken and disposed of, the raw materials that made Edo Period umbrellas often saw multiple lives with umbrella repairmen carving out a fairly lucrative niche for themselves.

These repairmen would buy used umbrellas, assign a price based on the condition of the bamboo frame then disassemble, repair and resell them to new buyers.

Discarded materials, such as the waterproof oiled paper would pass onto local butchers for wrapping fish and miso.

With umbrellas and paper lanterns sharing essentially the same materials, umbrella repairmen would also cross over into the realm of lantern repair and often sub-contract this work out to low-level samurai.

Used clothes dealers

If you thought Shimokitazawa was overrun with used clothing dealers these days, Brown says there were as many as 4,000 of them in Edo.

With new clothes being unaffordable for the average family, when it came time to update the wardrobe, old garments would be washed and taken to a dealer to be exchanged for refurbished items at a small fee.

These dealers would take apart kimono, dye them and reassemble them for resale, a task made easier due to the way kimono are designed.

As clothes would begin to wear out, they found new life as aprons, diapers, pouches, cloths and eventually kindling before becoming ash which would also be repurposed.

Barrel repairers and recyclers

If you knew your way around a bamboo barrel hoop in the Edo Period you could make a steady living for yourself repairing the various types of shoyu, sake, miso or vinegar barrels found in the average home.

The more experienced itinerant barrel hoop makers could also find work as barrel recyclers, a specialized craft that saved reusable barrels and casks from early disposal.

After collection, recyclers would inspect, grade, refurbish and resell them onto brewers and liquor shops who would choose from new, new-looking, slightly used or worn barrels depending on their intended use.

Ashmen

Most daily items in the Edo Period were made from burnable plant-based materials such as wood, bamboo, straw and cotton.

Rather than have worn-out rope, sandals, hats, raincoats or baskets end up in landfill, these items could be burnt to provide heat and turned to ash, which is where the ashman comes in.

Rather than discarding of ash, households and businesses such as public baths would collect their ash and sell it to local ashmen.

With ash from straw and cotton cloth containing large amounts of potassium, it was in high demand as an additive for fertilizer or for use in ceramics, dyes or sake production which created a lucrative business for motivated ashmen.

[nancyheart11]

I thrifted some sandals last weekend and today the mink oil for them arrived!

Base sandal, as bought

With mink oil just on the outside of the straps

Full first coat of mink oil on all leather parts and coating of walnut oil on the wood

I've now put a second layer of mink oil and will let it sit over night.

Wish me some comfy and stylish shoes!

[somefanficrecomendations]

Author Spotlight: CatSteppingOnAKeyboard!

Introducing. . . author spotlight! This post will be a roundup of my personal favorites written by this author, instead of a traditional roundup with fics by multiple authors.

Ambrosia and snake oil are sold by the same vendor The Penumbra Podcast, (multi), 180k, Humor, Action & Adventure “Twirl for me, Juno.” “I’ll do it if you close your eyes.” Nureyev takes his hand and makes Juno twirl. The rainbow skirts of a summer dress flare, a yellow cardigan snapping about him, his gold sandals flashing. The effect is of a rainbow octopus flashing its warning colors on the end of Nureyev’s arm. Nureyev catches Juno by the waist “You look splendid.” “I look like I run a mommy-blog.” “I think that’s the point, Juno.” Juno Steel is a lot of things. A happy home-maker ain't one of them, but hey, how hard can it be to play nice for a bit, especially if it means uncovering a source of the cure-mother? Except it's not that simple because nothing ever is in Juno's life. Suddenly he and his family are poised on the verge of an intergalactic conspiracy that pits Juno against old friends and enemies, while the fate of a dying species hangs in the balance. Also some furby nightmare fell out of the vents and Vespa won't let them put it back to the woods.

Ambrosia and snake oil was the best Penumbra fic I had ever read until I read The ballad of Jet Sikuliaq. The combination of action and humor, found family shenanigans, and wacky BAMF's is exactly what got me into The Penumbra Podcast, and it drew me into this fic all the same.

The ballad of Jet Sikuliaq  The Penumbra Podcast, (gen), 120k, Pre-Canon, Heists Before a certain lady detective ever met a certain nameless thief, before a certain mayor ever set a robot plague upon a certain Martian city, there were others being gay and doing crimes in space. Jet; a torn between the cool uncle he is on the inside and the ruthless, blood-thirsty, property-damaging intergalactic criminal with a wicked drug dependency he is on the outside. Buddy; the victim of his most recent bout of impulsive destruction. To compensate for what Jet has done to Buddy's reputation, Buddy recruits Jet for a singularly difficult task: either he kills her father, a notorious prison baron and jackass, or Buddy kills Jet and displays his remains over the counter of her bar next to the mechanical trout that sings 'Sweet Caroline'. Nothing goes as planned, least of all the beautiful friendship that blooms out of this unlikely allegiance.

I have a secret love for pre-canon fics and The Ballad doesn't disappoint. The ballad of Jet Sikuliaq is a quintessential heist fic with reluctant teammates, bizarre humor, and that ooey gooey found family goodness. This fic explores a brilliant depth of emotion with discussions of addiction, grief, and mental illness that are a halfway substitute for real therapy.

There are no wolves left in Ireland  Derry Girls x IT, (gen), 70k, The Power of Friendship, Biblical Horror Orla raises her hand higher. “I’ve been possessed.” Erin rolls her eyes. “No, she hasn’t, Sister Michael. Orla was iron deficient last year- she got a swimmy feeling in her head every time she stood up and she thought that was demons.” “It was demons.” says Orla, evenly. “Oh, and iron tablets made the demons go away, did they?” Her cousin shrugs and thumbs the side of her nose. “Well, I felt better after I took ‘em, didn’t I?” Another Derry, another time, same old Pennywise. Armed with friendship, faith, an encyclopedic knowledge of Catholic heresy and a pitchfork one of them got out of the garden shed, the Derry girls do battle with a clown who really should have known better than to try this shit in Northern Ireland.

This was the fic that got me into the source material. I actually read the first chapter of this fic and then put it down to watch the first episode of Derry Girls. Hilarious, horrifying, and heartwarming, this fic has it all! A definite must read, you only need the bare minimum of familiarity with Derry Girls and even less knowledge of IT to enjoy this fic.

[bardnuts]

The Unheard

It’s getting dark. The steady rumble of the roaring highway and the indistinct drone of her parents’ conversation should have lulled Sarah to sleep, but she can’t relax, because something is following their car. 

It’s careful to stay well back, but she can see it through the stovepipe pines, a long-legged pale thing slinging through the oil-soaked woods like a man made of taffy. She raises herself in her seat and stares at it through the window, just so it knows she’s watching. Maybe she can scare it away. 

Her father puts on his turn signal and drifts two lanes closer to the woods just as their pursuer puts on a burst of speed. For an instant it breaks onto the verge, reaching for their rear bumper with outstretched fingers. Sarah bolts up and screams, causing her father to swerve and swear, and a horn blares past them as Sarah’s mother twists in her seat to scold her. 

“There’s something after us!” Sarah cries. “Drive faster, Daddy!” 

“You had a bad dream, Curly-Q,” says her father, “and the speed limit is 70 miles per hour.” He flips the cruise control on as cars and trucks whiz past them. 

Sarah stares through the back window. Their pursuer has paused on the verge, gazing after them with wide, white, lamplike eyes. When Sarah meets its gaze it jolts and scuttles into the woods, where it resumes its loping gait. It’s faster than they are. It’s going to catch up. 

On the horizon, a rotating truck stop sign gleams through the encroaching night, and Sarah has an idea. She’ll be safe there, in a wet bathroom with no windows or exterior walls. “Mommy,” she moans, “I gotta throw up!” 

“Oh, Jesus. Are you sure?” says her mother. Sarah has never been carsick before. 

In response, Sarah bends over and retches. It’s an admirable performance, but instead of flooring the gas and peeling away up the exit toward the safety of the lights, Sarah’s father brakes and slides off the highway, juddering over the rumble strip and coming to a stop beside the trees. 

It’s dark now.

Sarah’s mother opens the door and unbuckles her from the car seat. She tries to cling to the seatbelt, crying, “No!”

“Not in the car, baby, come on,” says her mother. They are stalled and alone on the short dry grass beside the road, sacrilegiously still as headlights thunder past. Sarah hates this nothing place. She knows instinctively: people aren’t meant to linger here. When her mother sets her on the grass, she starts to cry, and then she decides to run. It’s the plot of a four-year-old mastermind: if she is moving, she cannot be caught. 

Her sudden bolt takes her parents by surprise, and she’s into the trees before they can catch her. A beer can crunches under her pink plastic sandal and pine needles nip between her toes, but there is no undergrowth to ensnare her; the highway fumes have sterilized the woods. 

Then it looms out of the dark in front of her, Sarah’s pale pursuer. She screams and tries to pivot but slips in the straw and falls. She can hear her parents calling her name, but it isn’t her mother who smooths her curls from her face with a warm and sticky hand. 

“Shhhh,” it says. “They mean well, but they will only hurt you.” 

Sarah wants to scream again, but she’s too paralyzed by terror to do anything but whimper. In the darkness this creature is little more than a smear of reflected light. It has too many limbs and bends to register as human, in spite of its hands. Dead vines knotted and repurposed. 

“I am a messenger,” it says. “Seeking you since you were born. Will you hear my message?” 

Sarah gathers all her courage, and then she spits on it. 

“Go away!” she shouts. “Go, go, go away!” 

It draws back at once. Its white eyes put out a faint light that dims and flares as it blinks. “So easily you make your choice,” it whispers. “I wonder if you’ll remember it, when the time comes to regret?”

Sarah finds a pinecone and throws it. The messenger draws back, then nods at her. Quick as that, it’s gone, sliding into the dark just as Sarah’s father comes around a tree and scoops her up.

Back at the car, her parents scold her and argue with one another as they buckle her into her seat. Sarah shivers with relief and fear and says nothing. Her mother gets behind the wheel, and their little blue van stumbles back onto the highway and joins the endless exodus to nowhere.

Sarah watches woods flit past the window, and for the first time they seem empty. 

[madmarchhare]

The Monk and the Traveller Ch.2

Cherry spent about two hours with the man, getting a dinner of fried fox wrapped in various herbs along with some pheasant he had cooked the night before, leaving the pheasant he had caught today to prepare later. Alcohol flowed freely, much to the monk’s taciturn delight, Collier pouring him large servings of Sake[1] into a pair of ornate jet sake dishes he had. ‘It would be wrong to serve them in something else!’ he had remarked, just before gulping down the clear drink. By the end of the supper the smaller man was thoroughly drunk, both on good food and good drink, completely red in the face and quite out of it.

Collier made conversation all the while, asking questions about the man while discussing himself, but Cherry was only in a state to offer monosyllabic replies or nods. The Englishman noticed, but was not too bothered by it, enjoying the company nonetheless as he spoke increasingly to himself. In the end Cherry was struggling to hold himself awake, beginning to nod off into the drink in his hand. Collier grabbed him under the arm and pulled him to his room, the monk wearing a Cheshire cat smile all the way. His room was lavish for the hotel, simplistic yet finely decorated where it could be. Collier pulled the man to his room and laid him on his bed, leaving his hat hung on his staff and the latter leaned against the wall outside the room, along with his sandals.

He left through the door, leaving the key inside near it, hearing Cherry’s drunken mumblings as he left. He walked back down the hall to his room, nodding to the daughter of the inn as they passed each other, which she returned curtly as she carried a number of towels. He returned to his room, locking the door behind himself then changed into a pair of striped pyjamas, removing his money from the jacket before folding it away. He went to bed, laying his watch near his head after unlatching it from his wrist, then laying down on the futon[2].

Collier woke up early, as he often did, getting up and stretching before walking off to wash his face and brush his teeth. After that, he changed into the trousers he had worn yesterday, with a fresh shirt rolling up the sleeves as he grabbed his guns to clean them.

The rifle was an equitize piece, a Lee Speed sporting with high grade wood, polished a deep colour. A metal butt plate on its rear, with a sling loop on the underside of the stock, a few inches up of a metal oval in the stock. The semi-pistol grip was beautifully chequered, a horn grip cap just below it, the trigger and magazine just ahead of it. Both featured light engravings, a deep one on the underside of the trigger guard. The foregrip was just a deeply chequered as the grip, capped with deep black horn as well. The action was blued deeply, with a round bolt head, a dust cover over the top of the action, the magazine cut-off just below it. The Lee action locked into a beautifully blued long barrel, a chequered rib all along the top, bar for the inscription of ‘Army & Navy Cooperative Ltd[3] London For cordite only’. A set of three flip up leaf sight near the action, platinum lines up their centres, along with a ladder sight up to a thousand yards, left for the ambitions. The end of the barrel featured a raised dot sight, adjustable with a set screw on one side, the muzzle showing the grooves of Enfield-style rifling as a swing loop was affixed under the far end of the barrel.

He disassembled and cleaned the rifle, being somewhat liberal on the use of oil as he cleaned out the cordite residue in the rifling, giving all the metal and wood a quick polish as he put it back together, working the action as he finished, then holding the trigger as it closed it back so it wouldn’t re-cock the striker. His revolvers were in better concern, not having been used as much. The first, and smaller of the two was Merwin & Hulbert Third Model frontier. An army style revolver, meaning it was chambered in the US army’s standard of .44 calibre, specifically in .44-40 or Winchester 1873 as it was marked on the gun. It featured a flared, bell-shaped grip made of ivory, a seven inch barrel, and was nickel plated. It was well engraved, seeing woven patterns of reeds and roaming Saharan fauna. He had bought it when he had travelled to America, enjoying the speed and strength of the gun, especially as this was a double action model.

His other one, a deep blued piece, was a Webley Target with Bakelite grips and seven and a half inch barrel. Both the rear-sight on the latch and the front sight were adjustable, the grip being flared at the base and the trigger serrated. It was Chambered in .477 Eley, also called Enfield, it was a black powder cartridge which Collier used as a stopping revolver, for tigers, bears and the like. Though unfortunately it would not go much larger in it’s targets.

He finished cleaning the trio of weapons he had got out, placing them away as he went to wash his hands and finish getting dressed. Before he left he went past Cherry’s room, pressing his ear to the door, checking for signs that the monk was still alive. He heard the man toss slightly within the room, so drew back, assured that he had not helped the man drink himself to death. He pulled on his coat and the rest of his equipment, a small rucksack on his back, along with a burlap wrapped canteen. An ammunition pouch strapped under the rucksack, along with an expense pouch on his right hip, near a metal brace for carrying game, both revolvers holster at his waist on the left.

He grabbed the left-over bits of fox meat, wrapped in wax-paper, to use as bait, placing them with the other select chunks he had with him already in his bag. He affixed a hunting knife to his belt, an ivory handled Damascus blade, then pulled his rifle over his shoulder. He left his room, locking it behind him as he walked, holding his boots by the mouth pinched between his finger and thumb. The sun had barely risen as he left his room, nodding to Surogasu as they passed each other the owner smiling warmly at his guest, though still wearing a tired look on his face. Collier walked to the entrance, stopping to don his boots, then left. Morning was dark outside, the sun not having yet raised its face. He checked his watch using what remained of the light from the inn, and saw it was twenty-eight minutes to five o’clock. He smiled to himself then set off into the dark, accompanied by the early morning songs of birds and the chatter of insects.

He arrived in the woods shortly after, adjusting his equipment, making sure nothing could rattle before loading his rifle, loading each round of .303 individually into the box magazine. He loaded both revolvers as well, opening the loading gate on the right side of the Merwin’s cylinder before sliding into its holster and retrieving the Webley. He broke it open, dropping the large bullets into the cylinder one by one before snapping it shut and holstering it as well. He stepped carefully through the woods, lifting his legs high to not become entangled in the groundcover underfoot. Conifer trees stretched high around him, draining out what little light the morning had granted him as he continued forward. He checked his watch, the radium on the hands lightly illuminating the face, allowing him to see that it had just turned quarter past five. He grabbed some bait from his rucksack, a section of breasted pheasant and set it up in a small parting in the ground cover. He moved downwind of the meat, watching closely as he moved away from it. When he was far enough away he chambered a round in his rifle, flipping up the leaf sight for the right range as he crouched down in the bracken, concealing himself within it. He waited patiently, watching around the spot as he listened to the quiet, moving occasionally to try and stay into the wind so that his scent would not blow over the bait.

After a while, just as the twinkling sparks of daylight began to burn, Collier saw movement ahead of him, just by a small mess of holly near the bait. A fox swept out of the cover, glancing around the space as it seemed to be heading home, but had noticed the food ahead of it. It moved to it, cautious on instinct, the mess of chicken blood already present on its chest as it considered the additional meal. Finally it darted close to it and snatched it up in its mouth. Before it could dash off, its legs already shifting, Collier fired, the sights lined up squarely on the creatures red face. The bullet boomed as it left the barrel, wreathed in a great boa of fire and burning cordite as it whipped past the plants surrounding the muzzle to pierce cleanly through the fox’s head. The creature didn’t notice, flopping to the ground from the residual inertia. The shot echoed off the thin trunks of the trees, bouncing up and down the uneven ground of the forest. Birds flew off in distress at the noise, though a number remained unabashed in their sleep.

Collier lifted and pulled back the bolt, catching the brass and dumping it into a pocket. He closed the bolt, chambering a round, then flipped on the safety before striding over to the fox. It was still twitching slightly, the last shocks of nerves displaying a fruitless imitation of life. He affixed the body to the brace had had at his hip, shifting it around so he could reach his expense pouch for cartridges. He left what remained of the bait on the ground, for the scavengers he thought. He made his way forward, an idle crow calling after him, almost in thanks for the meal he had left it. He made the same attempt two more times, the first succeeding, though the shot pierced its neck. The last attempt was fruitless, the day already having broke, seeing then end of any excursion for a fox.

He heard and saw a number of squirrels busing themselves across the tree branches, flashes of red and grey backlit against the innumerous greens and browns of the conifers. He let them alone, deciding to come back with a shotgun another time. Even his revolvers were likely too powerful for the small creatures. He continued on, finding a small outcropping of stone that he laid himself on, the wind dying down as he did. He stared out over the forest ahead of him, holding his rifle loosely in his hands. He had seen the signs of it a while earlier, small pits called ‘scrapes’ dung into the ground by the thing which stunk of the musky urine they used to mark them. He was in its territory, so he expected it to come, either soon or later.

He had spent the latter half of the day before stalking it, working out the particulars of its realm. He laid still, time ticking by with his watch as the sun moved overhead. By midday he had seen nothing, bar from a flush of green pheasant, of which he shot two with his rifle, bundling them with the foxes, wrapped in a sheet beside him. Then he spotted its shape. Almost fifty inches tall at the shoulder, and about sixty inches long, with deep mahogany fur, darker around the spine of the neck and near invisible white spots on its back. It darted its eyes around the scene with determined caution, prepared to fend off someone who breached his territory, using his impressive antlers. A sika deer, or nihonjika.[4] They were a fascinating species, especially compared to other deer he had hunted. Most would flee when they felt danger, the sika, however would hide. They would conceal themselves, indeed this one had likely done so as Collier hunted for it. But now, it hadn’t seen him, while the reverse was not true.

Collier again lined up the deer’s skull into the sights, the platinum line along the leaf sight crossing the dot sight just at its brow. He pulled the trigger carefully, feeling the take-up on his finger until the sear slipped out from under the striker. The shot was clean, the beautiful creature falling back gracefully, landing in the bracken with a light thrush of foliage and rushing air. Collier stared at it down his sights for a moment, letting out a satisfied exhale before pulling himself to his feet and slinging the rifle back over his shoulder. He grabbed the bundle of shot game beside him, holding it by a length of twine he had tied it up with as he walked over to the beast. Even in death, the buck held its beauty proudly, tall and lean, toned by a life of wilderness.

He dropped the game to the ground, pulling out his knife as he leant over the buck, swiftly and efficiently skinning the creature before sectioning the meat. He wrapped it up in brown paper, tying them with twine from his rucksack. He finished taking everything from the animal after a half hour, only leaving the stomach, intestines and lungs. He stood back away from the beast for a moment, wiping his bloody hands on a parchment of moss, sighing contently. He sat for a moment on a stump, reaching into one of his pockets to pull out a set of cigars, tucking one into his mouth as he reached for a box of matches. He pulled out the yellow box of Swan Vestas, pushing it out of the cover and plucking a singular match from it as swiftly striking it against the side, placing the box back in his pocket. He pressed the flame against the end of the cigar, puffing to light it as pinkish-grey smoke billowed around him, backlit by the sun. He took in a few mouthfuls of smoke before jumping to his feet, smoke whipping about, behind him and grabbing up all the game to take back. Just before he left, having collected all of his things, he removed the head of the buck to boil down to the skull later. He left the rest to nature, feeling curious glances of birds of prey overhead as he began to make his way back.

[1] A wine made from fermented rice.

[2] A Japanese style of bedding. The usually consist of a mattress[shikibuton] and duvet[kakebuton].

[3] The Army and Navy Co-operative was a company, initially a co-operative, established in the 19th century to serve British army and navy troops, selling weapons, ammunition and equipment, everything a soldier might need while serving overseas.

[4] Japanese Dear

[abookishdreamer]

Character Intro: Ichnaea (Kingdom of Ichor)

Nicknames- The Hidden Goddess by the people of Olympius

Agapitós by Anytos

Age- 36 (immortal)

Location- Phrygia, Olympius

Personality- She's an introverted, quick, & clever goddess with an exceptional attention to detail. She's also very particular and analytical. She's married & is a new first time mom.

She has the standard abilities of a goddess except shapeshifting. As the goddess of tracking her other powers/abilities include invisibility (by way of camoflauge- which also includes becoming intangible, inaudible, & inodorous), psychometry, having supersonic eyesight, enhanced smell, being able to make objects & other beings invisible, and having limited prophectic visions.

Members of her immediate family includes her husband Anytos (Titan god of anonymity & secrets), her newborn baby daughter Phyge (goddess of escape), and her stepdaughter Despoina (goddess of the arcadian mysteries, frost, winter, & shadows).

Ichnaea lives with her husband & daughter at their lakehouse estate in the state of Phrygia. They have their own private lake, a sailboat, and a stone pavilion outside. Inside the house the color scheme is mint green, gray, cream, dusty rose, & forest green. The interior design is very rustic with stone flooring, many potted woodland plants, brushed brass & wood furniture pieces, leather and burlap furniture, a carved stone coffee table, framed black & white photographs on the walls, various mounted animal antlers, as well as decorative pottery pieces. There's also two guest bedrooms. In her bedroom, there's a co-sleeper for the baby.

A piece of jewelry Ichnaea always wears is a gold locket, which has a photo of her husband and baby.

She has quite the furry brood! There's two bernese mountain dogs named Bear and Duchess as well as three german shepherds named Bruno, Bolt, & Heidi.

Ichnaea starts out her mornings with a three mile jog and a swim in the lake. She'll sometimes have a session of tai chi.

A typical breakfast for her is a small bowl of cereal- her favorites being the Golly Grains vanilla spice & the Earthly Harvest raisin crunch with almondmilk. She also likes banana nut oatmeal (topped with peanut butter & dark chocolate chips), lightly buttered chia seed muffins, toasted whole wheat kalamata olive bagels spread with tzatziki cream cheese, and her husband's shakshuka.

Honeydew, kiwis, apples, bananas, figs, & apricots are her favorite fruits.

Ichnaea has always kept a low profile in the pantheon and public. She doesn't mind her status as a minor deity. Ichnaea just does her best to serve all beings in the realm, pay respect to the crown, and be there for those she cares about.

At home she prefers walking barefoot, but when outside, her preferred footwear are sandals & flats.

A go-to drink is her husband's homemade banana-olive juice. She also likes mineral water, limeade, mint tea, ginger ale, vanilla almondmilk, homemade honeydew-kale smoothies, lychee juice, cucumber & mint flavored botanical beer, orange juice, classic martinis, sparkling green sangrias, white wine, and peartinis. Her usuals from The Roasted Bean includes a large scorching hot dark roast coffee (with plenty of sugar) & an olympian sized iced green tea. She hasn't drunk coffee or alcohol since her pregnancy.

She's not on any social media websites, including the most popular one- Fatestagram.

Her favorite color is light green.

She keeps her straight shoulder length black hair in a low ponytail or tight bun. Ichnaea swears by the olive oil Glory's Crown hair products- the shampoo, conditioner, & hair gloss.

Ichnaea views her relationship with her husband as "The greatest love story ever whispered." Their love grew over time, starting up from when they met on the deserted Mt. Othrys at a small get together with other deities celebrating the anniversary of the end of the Titanomachy. She saved all the letters & love poems Anytos sent her during their correspondence while he was living in Colchis at the time. Ichnaea says that his serious and intense eyes remind her of embered coals. Ichnaea & Anytos were married in a small intimate ceremony in the woodlands. There were only twenty guests in attendance. She carried a bouquet of wildflowers & lilies and wore a pastel light green strapless silk ruffle dress. Her best friend Ioke (goddess of pursuit, tumult, & battle rout) was her maid of honor.

Her favorite frozen treat is pistachio ice cream. She also likes lime sorbet.

Ichnaea's relationship with her stepdaughter hasn't been so seemless. Despoina isn't outwardly disrespectful, but always maintains a certain emotional distance. Ichnaea considers it a treat if her stepdaughter utters more than five words to her. Recently, to get on Despoina's good side, Ichnaea gifted her the latest hardcover mystery novel (with splayed edges) written by Phoebe (Titaness of prophecy, the moon, radiant intellect, & mystery). The Silver Titaness signed the copy herself.

Her favorite desserts are pistachio baklava, key lime pie, and hummingbird cake.

The spinach & mandarin orange salad topped with dried cranberries, pomegranate seeds, toasted almonds, and sweet sesame seed dressing is her favorite thing to get at The Bread Box.

Ichnaea has been enjoying her journey into motherhood. She takes joy in all the little things- the sleepless nighs, the constant feedings and diaper changes, & counting the tiny breaths the baby inhales and exhales. Leto (Titaness of demurity & motherhood) did the maternity photoshoot as well as the birth announcement photoshoot. Ichnaea decided on a home birth with Gaia (goddess of the earth) being her midwife. Ioke was also there for support. After 18 hours of labor, Ichnaea pushed out the most perfect being she ever seen- a six pound baby girl with a thick mop of black hair, a snub nose, cherub cheeks, hazel brown eyes, and dark olive skin. She made Ioke Phyge's godmother, or noná.

She's exclusively breastfeeding & is currently on maternity leave from her job. Ichnaea made note of Phyge's milestones at an appointment with Paean (goddess of physicians) at nine and a half weeks old.

Before becoming pregnant with her daughter, Ichnaea worked in the country's defensive department in the SAR branch (search and rescue) alongside Soteria (goddess of safety). She also worked in Olympius' military department, becoming one of the few decorated & celebrated female snipers in the realm's history.

The alarming number of missing Athenians in Crete has been a real headscratcher for her.

In the pantheon she's also good friends with Lelantos (Lantos) (Titan god of the unseen, air, & hunting), Apheleia (goddess of simplicity), Nárkosi (goddess of sedation), Lethe (Titaness of forgetfulness, oblivion, & concealment), Damia (goddess of naturalness), Elais (goddess of oil), Dyssebeia (goddess of ungodliness & impiety), Limos (goddess of starvation & famine), Ptocheia (goddess of beggary), and Proioxis (goddess of attack, onrush, & battlefield pursuit). She's also friends with Lantos' wife Periboia. Ichnaea was the official mentor to Britomartis (goddess of mountains, hunting, & fishing nets). She's also fond of Lantos' daughter Aura (goddess of the breeze).

Ichnaea has traveled throughtout the country (mainly New Olympus) to see her friends.

Her and Ioke has been in attendance to the Olympian Grand Prix, the most popular & exclusive motor racing event in the entire realm!

She even visited Nárkosi at the commune she lives in with Pan (god of the wild, satyrs, shepherds, & rustic music).

For Christmas, Ioke gifted Ichnaea with the Diamond Ave. jeweled camera clutch, as a nod to her best friend's growing interest in photography.

Lately, she's been getting into pressure point martial arts.

Ichnaea loves listening to alternative, grunge, rock, and classical music. A new favorite has been the music of Moros (god of doom).

Her all time favorite meal is her husband's lentil stew with saffron rice & roasted artichokes.

In her free time Ichnaea enjoys archery, basketball, hiking, boxing, football (soccer), reading, mountain climbing, sewing, going to the spa, knitting, mixed martial arts, cooking, and spending time with family.

"To walk in nature is to witness a thousand miracles."

[blue-hamble]

In the clan territory, there is a dry spot high on the cliffs where few grasses grow, studded with markers of wood and stone. When a clan member dies, their body is specially prepared with herbs and oils and left out for their deity to claim them. All bodies are often allowed a night here for a chance to be taken to the realm of the Windsinger, leaving not a trace behind. If they remain the next morning, their bones are gathered and sent out to the ocean, or else buried or cremated as their will sees fit. It is at this humble grave site that the gravekeeper does her duties, laying flowers and gifts at each dragon's marker on appropriate days. 

Corona II Mermesa Heliones gives a dry chuckle at your wide eyes. Her worn sandals and dusty gowns disguise her old life in the Mirrorlight Promenade, she says, where she was once queen consort before escaping her king.  "Consorts were little more than concubines with pedigree, discarded by when new young ladies enter the courts. My children were nowhere near the succession, not when the sons and daughters of the first Corona lived. Still, exile is better that then a ‘mysterious death’ to tide over the introduction of Corona III. I got lucky, truly." She looks down at her fine-boned fingers with a wistful smile, clasping them together in prayer.

"Cloud Brush is my home, and in spite of the past I am happy. I spend my days with my friends in exchange for these little rituals. There are some things about the dead and dying that we Old Light folk know best." EXTRA: - loves sunbeam figs - she makes a mean olive and feta pie

[scholarlypidgeot]

"Come here, you need a hug." -for whichever ocs you like ^-^

Pat sighed gently as she looked at Henry. His body was laced with scars, patched over with bandages soaked in fragrant oils the kitsune healer had insisted would help to put him at ease. Despite weeks of recovery he was still painfully thin and pale. His wrists were still an angry red, bone visible, but the infection had been beaten back. His hair was clean, but he had not cut it, nor the thick and rugged beard he'd developed in captivity. And without a patch to cover it, the ragged hole where his left eye once was glared at her even as he slept.

His rest had also become fitful. When they had first escaped, he had always slept like True Death - unmoving and deep. Pat had taken up this habit of watching him just to make sure he didn't stop breathing in that sleep. Her own insomnia helped with that, of course. But even when they walked, he spent most of his time in a daze. Leland had all but carried him almost half of the way here. Once their safety was ensured, and a mat was provided, Henry had not moved for three days except to drink water.

Now, weeks later, his breathing was ragged. He moved about in the night, rolling from side to side. His face twitched, and under his lid his remaining eye could be seen in irregular motion. Pat's sleep hadn't improved at all, and so she'd resumed her watches. Sometimes she wrote. Sometimes she read, very softly, so as not to disturb him. And still others she did nothing but watch him, lost in thought.

"It's a good sign, you know."

Pat scrambled to her feet, heart racing. Lady Ninko stood in the doorway in a plain white robe, her hair loose around her shoulders. She was also watching Henry, eyes full of warmth.

"The restlessness. Mother says that it signifies his sleep has become healthier."

Pat opened her mouth to make some sound of agreement, but instead found herself apologizing. "I didn't mean anything, my lady, I was just watching..."

"I know." Ninko's smile was faint. "I can't ever truly share my gratitude with you. You've kept him well for so long. And you still are. I owe you the life of my beloved."

Pat felt her face grow hot and red, and she looked back down at the sleeping Prince— no. The Emperor. Such a strange position to be in, but Crown Prince Henry was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne and Silver Crown. And he was also a battered man, broken over and over to satisfy a cruel enemy's need for revenge.

"We should let him rest," Ninko continued, and she waved to Patrisia. "Walk with me, please."

Pat nodded once and followed the kitsune heiress. Her own robes were soft and strange to her, and she'd chosen to be barefoot over the hard wood sandals, but no one seemed to mind. The roads were all soft dirt anyway, the village freshly planted like a garden. It was still and peaceful in the night, the moons low in the sky, casting all in a blue glow. The breeze carried all the smells of the forest around, sweet and alive. It banished the smell of healing ointment that tried to cling to Pat, and was cool enough to blow away the hot embarrassment she'd felt a moment before.

Ninko moved with the casual slowness of one enjoying the night's beauty, and Pat had no trouble falling into step with her. They let the night envelop them with its silence, besides the distant buzz of insects and the occasional trills of night birds and ornixes. Finally, Pat broke it.

"Has he told you?"

"No."

Ninko walked for a while more, her silence now full of thoughts Pat could guess at.

"Would you like me to tell you?"

"Do you want to?"

"I feel like I have to tell someone." Pat sighed again. "Telling is all I have. It's what I am. I haven't yet had anyone who wants to listen to it, though."

"Does Leland know?"

Pat shook her head. "And he'd rather not hear it. He has too much on his mind as it is."

"You have much on your mind as well. If telling truly is all that you have—"

"I am secondary, My Lady," Pat interrupted, quietly. "Leland has borne the burden of our survival. With the help of Lindsey, sure, but he carried your beloved here, not me. And Henry himself has needed time to heal."

"And what of you?" Ninko stopped walking, and turned to look up at Pat. She never seemed small, though, and her face without the ceremonial paint and mask was gentle and kind. "You've rested, but you're troubled. This is not the Golden Crown. You are not secondary. Perhaps Leland bore the material burden, but he would not have gone back to save Harry."

Pat was a little surprised. "I thought he hadn't—"

"He didn't tell me about the worst. Only the parts he felt would relieve me." She smiled. "I know what you did for him, Patrisia, what you continue to do for him. You're Keeping him well."

Unsure what to say, Pat started to bow a little, but Ninko held up a hand.

"You are as tired as either of them, or both combined. You, too, deserve rest. They're safe here."

Darkness crossed Pat's heart, and it must have shown on her face as she turned it up to the moons. She felt very tired, but there was another coldness behind the exhaustion.

"I fear we have already stayed too long, La- I mean, Ninko. You and your people—"

"Are strong. Are warriors. And we stand together."

Pat saw a shadow on an outcropping visible over the temporary buildings of the village, a brown fox sporting five tails. It seemed eerie, even ghostly, in the blue moonlight. It rested on the edge of that outcrop, long face turned toward the forest beyond, ears in constant motion.

"Even together, I am afraid for you. For what we've brought to you."

Ninko placed a slender hand on the side of Pat's face, and turned it to look into her own golden eyes. Her smile was warm and sad and grateful and tense, all at once. A tricky, ever-moving flicker.

"You have brought me my Harry back. You have done more than you ever needed to, faced more pain than he would ever dare to ask of you, and in the face of that devotion no danger can stand. I can only return the same to you."

As she said that, Ninko spread her arms out, hands low. Pat blinked a few times in confusion, until she added: "You've taken far too much upon yourself, Pat. Come here, you need a hug."

Pat found herself stepping forward almost in a trance, and wondered vaguely if there was some magic involved, or just a final decision on her body's part to stop arguing and listen for once. She leaned down into it, and wrapped her arms around the other woman's shoulders, suddenly aware that aside from sharing in Henry's dead weight she had not felt the embrace of another person in...far too long. The warmth that flooded into her bled out in a stream of tears, steady and free from harsh sobbing. Words were not enough here, nor were they needed. The warmth that rested between them would be more than enough for now.

---------------

Word Goal: 450

Final Word Count: 1251

Another ancient prompt, dusted off and dug up from the bottom of the inbox! This scene is from Azure, which comes in the middle of the series. I wanted to do something with Ninko and so here she is! The fox waifu!

Thank you for the ask! I'm always open to more questions and prompts. And thank you for reading!

Tag list: @that-catholic-shinobi @irishironclad @redheadedbrunette @bespectacled-ghost @distance-does-not-matter @a-beautiful-crow

If you'd like to be added to or removed from this tag list, please let me know!

[ansixilus]

What do you think my goblin and zombie characters look like? What do you associate them with?

Your goblin I envision rather like how @anonbeadraws renders Shale: a curious combination of short and lanky, with wide and pointed features, and a mouth that can smile very very widely when desired. The world seems heavily colored by summer sun and warm hearth-fire, so my mind has not decided between skin that may be bright green like young leaves, or faded green like settled dust, or a burnished brown like oiled walnut wood. Perhaps that skin takes colors from the light upon it, and is one or the other when so seen. Long-fingered, this goblin, balanced between lanky and comfortable in body, with a favor for clothes that are practical and easy-wearing. Soft boots are just as likely as sturdy sandals, an apron as likely as a tunic. I don't know whether such warm eyes as his are warm in color, but they give the feeling of it.

The zombie, time has been unkind to. Skin has dried and hardened, waxy yellow and lined with crags, almost wooden and mask-like... but not lifeless, not any more. Withered lips can still cover teeth only slightly yellowed, but a habit of hanging open the mouth shows them off regardless. Clothes might have been fine once, when a living person wore them, but time has been even less kind to them. Dirtied and stained in ways that simple cleaning cannot undo, hardened with dust and worn at every crease, fraying at edges and raggeding at seams... yet the whole effect is subtle so they are mistaken for travelers' clothes at first glance, or second. The hands are horribly torn and worn; a living thing could not use them, let alone with the ease and grace their owner does. Yet the hands are still unobvious things, and one scarce notices them except when one chooses to study them. There's black hair atop the head, which might be called a shock or a shag, depending on who named it. Although ragged and unkempt, it's the first thing the rain reaches and much cleaner than you might expect. The eyes... are shadowed, and glitter in those shadows. It feels, perhaps not forbidden, but certainly rude to try to pierce those shadows. Let the glittering darkness keep its secrets.

The home is perhaps what a home in the Shire might be, if it had no neighbors. A low door to a home mostly built into and under ground, whose roof becomes the top of the hillside behind it. The sunward side holds the front door, and a sprawling place that a fool might mistake for a lawn. A bit of lightly guided nature can be an incredible garden. The inside might seem dark if you come from human homes, but you really don't need much light to do what needs done. There are candles and lanterns and lights as may need if a room needs to be bright.

I haven't much focused on details. It looks like a dream, so details are blurry. It's a mood, it's a summer-colored place, it's a hope that can keep growing come any winter or sorrow.

[fenrislorsrai]

Put it in the dishwasher

Standing to clean things is hard for my mom. Getting the finger strength to scrub stuff is also hard. Seeing it through bifocals, hard.

Thus a great many things that are not dishes go in the dishwasher. It doesn’t always do a perfect job, but it makes things a hell of a lot easier.  I mentioned some of the weird stuff we put in the dishwasher and a friend with fatigue went “you can put that in the dishwasher?”  Hell yes you can!

a non-exhaustive list of things we’ve successfully run through the dishwasher:

Crocs & sandals

canvas sneakers

milkcrate

refrigerator drawer

pill organizer

drawer organizer

screwdrivers

pliers

bookends

doorstop

fan blades & protective screen

small metal screens

sink strainer

compost bucket

birdfeeder

suet feeder

birdbath

windchimes (you might want to put them in a mesh laundry bag to corral them- really, I am never ever washing windchimes any other way now)

just about any metal tool that will fit in there

breathing masks for oxygen

inhaler extender

respirometer

Most glass and metal will wash just fine. Plastic gets dodgier due to heat. it may warp. It may not. It might warp slightly and be easily fixed by dunking it in hot water and remolding it.  

unpainted, unfinished wood frequently will wash fine. It won’t like you doing it frequently, but it can get it back to a state where you have some chance of keeping it clean. Don’t try with painted wood. just put it somewhere sunny to dry completely. Ditto with canvas shoes. porous stuff just needs a good sunny spot to dry completely! 

For metal tools with moving parts, let them get completely dry and then oil them to make sure they don’t get a chance to rust.

Some newer models of dishwasher will have a higher temp “sanitize” option for stuff like the medical equipment. (this was a feature we looked for when we recently got a new machine) If its something you’ve been struggling with handwashing, this can make a huge difference even if you still need to put it in a sterilizing solution afterward. I suggest running this stuff by itself.

That said, there are occasional fails on some things that didn’t like the dishwasher. But if you’re at the point where something is dirty enough you’re not using it and it is not so expensive you can’t replace it.... why not find out if it goes in the dishwasher?

[oriental-perfume-finland]

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[parfumery-wiki]

Tantrico (eau de parfum) Laboratorio Olfattivo Nose: Lucien Ferrero

Woods

«What is more noble for a perfumer than Sandal attar? Without doubt it is the most precious essential oil in the history of perfumery, with a refined elegance, an unparalleled sensuality and an intimacy that I invite you to try.»

An indisputable symbol of spirituality and a medium of communication between the land and the divine for many civilizations, if we think of Sandalwood, we cannot but refer to its sensuality which is released in the contact between this raw material and the skin. In Tantrico, the velvety character of Sandalwood is tickled by the aromatic touch of Sage, Juniper and Cypress creating a jus in perfect balance between discretion and sensuality that binds to the skin immediately, creating a persistent but intimate aura.

Top notes: Juniper berry, Lime, Clary sage, Grapefruit Heart notes: Cypress, Pepper, Sandalwood Base notes: White musk, Balsam fir, Atlas cedar

[essentialoilbulk1]

The Essence of Elegance: Sandal-Based Attar Manufacturer Insights

In the world of perfumery, attars—traditional, alcohol-free perfumes—hold a special place. Among the various types of attars, sandal-based attars are revered for their rich, calming fragrance. These attars are crafted using sandalwood, a wood known for its warm, woody, and creamy aroma. The role of a sandal-based attar manufacturer is crucial in this process, as they ensure the quality and purity of the sandalwood essence that defines the perfume. This article delves into the fascinating world of sandal-based attar manufacturing, highlighting its significance, process, and the impressions it leaves on both creators and consumers.

The Crafting Process of Sandal-Based Attars

Creating a sandal-based attar is an art that requires skill, patience, and precision. The process begins with sourcing high-quality sandalwood, which is known for its distinctive aroma. The quality of sandalwood directly impacts the quality of the attar, making the selection of raw materials a critical step in the manufacturing process.

The next phase involves blending the sandalwood oil with other natural ingredients to create the final attar. This can include a variety of essential oils, such as rose, musk, or jasmine, which are chosen to complement and enhance the sandalwood fragrance. The blending process by sandal based attar manufacturer is an art in itself, requiring a deep understanding of how different scents interact and balance each other.

The Role of the Manufacturer in Crafting Excellence

The role of a sandal-based attar manufacturer extends beyond just producing the perfume. It involves maintaining high standards of quality control throughout the manufacturing process. From sourcing raw materials to blending and packaging, every step is scrutinized to ensure that the final product meets the highest standards.

A reputable manufacturer will often have a team of skilled artisans who specialize in different aspects of attar production. These artisans bring their expertise to each stage of the process, ensuring that the attar is not only fragrant but also consistent in quality. This level of craftsmanship by sandal based attar manufacturer is essential in creating attars that are highly regarded and sought after in the market.

Impressions and Market Presence

Their rich, woody fragrance is often described as warm and soothing, making them a favorite among those who seek a more grounded and natural scent. The impression left by a well-crafted sandal-based attar is one of sophistication and elegance.

The role of a sandal-based attar manufacturer is pivotal in preserving and promoting the tradition of sandalwood perfumery. Through a meticulous process of sourcing, distillation, blending, and quality control, these manufacturers create attars that are not only fragrant but also rich in cultural significance. As the market for sandal-based attars continues to grow, the expertise and dedication of sandal based attar manufacturer will remain at the heart of this timeless tradition.