The Antikythera Mechanism
Best BPAL review ever: The Antikythera Mechanism. Bronze gears spin inside a polished wooden case, and an entire universe dances within. Teakwood, oak, black vanilla, and tobacco.
And I tell you, the scent is worth the review. I'm happy with all of the Steamworks scents I've tried so far. Aelopile is citrus + amber. The Obsidian Widow is dark and mysterious and fabulous. Galvanic Goggles are worn by a dangerous well-dressed man. But the Antikythera Mechanism is, in addition to a neat artifact, an awesome scent.
And speaking of ancient Greece, I celebrated my earlier post about projects by working on something else entirely. A snippet from somewhere in the middle:
Giles' flat was a single large room with workspace, kitchen, and bed loft. Along a short hallway were the bath and some storage closets. It had been in a cheap and dangerous East End district when he'd bought it, a district which had gone somewhat upmarket around him. He'd chosen it because of the claustrophobia that had plagued him after Eyghon. Walls and locked doors and enclosed spaces set him shaking and sweating, convinced he was once again imprisoned. The only thing he could think to do about it was surround himself with open spaces. His colleagues introduced him as the man who had his office window open no matter the weather.
Most of his possessions were books, which he would ship, and some odd pieces of furniture, which he would sell. Giles owned the lease of his flat, and ordinarily he would have simply offered the place to Michael to live in while he was gone. But Michael would not be his after this week. It would be up to Travers to give his protege such gifts. So Giles would sublet the flat, and enjoy some extra income while he was in the States.
The shipping company had supplied him with stacks of folded cardboard moving boxes. Giles folded one open, and began to fill it with books.
Michael appeared a little later, with groceries in paper sacks and cartons of blistering takeaway curry. They sat together at Giles' little kitchen table and ate their lunch. Giles extracted his life story, or the portions of it the lad felt would impress Giles, as they ate. He was twenty-three. He had two degrees in maths, which was unusual but admirable. His sport was aikido. He had his heart set on a Honda Fireblade. His father was alive, in banking, not involved in the fight against darkness. He had no lovers just then, though he'd dated a woman seriously when at university. He was thrilled to be spending the week assisting Mr Giles. His story had already flashed from mouth to ear through Watcher circles, Michael said. Giles shifted uneasily in his chair. He wondered if the story had already been embroidered beyond recognition.
Michael cleared away the cartons, and they returned to emptying Giles' shelves. Eight days to roll up his life.
And I tell you, the scent is worth the review. I'm happy with all of the Steamworks scents I've tried so far. Aelopile is citrus + amber. The Obsidian Widow is dark and mysterious and fabulous. Galvanic Goggles are worn by a dangerous well-dressed man. But the Antikythera Mechanism is, in addition to a neat artifact, an awesome scent.
And speaking of ancient Greece, I celebrated my earlier post about projects by working on something else entirely. A snippet from somewhere in the middle:
Giles' flat was a single large room with workspace, kitchen, and bed loft. Along a short hallway were the bath and some storage closets. It had been in a cheap and dangerous East End district when he'd bought it, a district which had gone somewhat upmarket around him. He'd chosen it because of the claustrophobia that had plagued him after Eyghon. Walls and locked doors and enclosed spaces set him shaking and sweating, convinced he was once again imprisoned. The only thing he could think to do about it was surround himself with open spaces. His colleagues introduced him as the man who had his office window open no matter the weather.
Most of his possessions were books, which he would ship, and some odd pieces of furniture, which he would sell. Giles owned the lease of his flat, and ordinarily he would have simply offered the place to Michael to live in while he was gone. But Michael would not be his after this week. It would be up to Travers to give his protege such gifts. So Giles would sublet the flat, and enjoy some extra income while he was in the States.
The shipping company had supplied him with stacks of folded cardboard moving boxes. Giles folded one open, and began to fill it with books.
Michael appeared a little later, with groceries in paper sacks and cartons of blistering takeaway curry. They sat together at Giles' little kitchen table and ate their lunch. Giles extracted his life story, or the portions of it the lad felt would impress Giles, as they ate. He was twenty-three. He had two degrees in maths, which was unusual but admirable. His sport was aikido. He had his heart set on a Honda Fireblade. His father was alive, in banking, not involved in the fight against darkness. He had no lovers just then, though he'd dated a woman seriously when at university. He was thrilled to be spending the week assisting Mr Giles. His story had already flashed from mouth to ear through Watcher circles, Michael said. Giles shifted uneasily in his chair. He wondered if the story had already been embroidered beyond recognition.
Michael cleared away the cartons, and they returned to emptying Giles' shelves. Eight days to roll up his life.