Oriental

Spanish labdanum smells like warm, resinous amber kissed by sun-baked stone. Imagine honey that's been drizzled over leather and left to caramelize in the heat—sticky, slightly smoky, with undertones of incense and dried tobacco. There's a honeyed sweetness lurking beneath an almost animalic earthiness, reminiscent of walking into a centuries-old church filled with burning candles and wooden pews. It's hedonistic and slightly intoxicating, never delicate.

Floral

Tunisian neroli smells like sunshine captured in a bottle. Imagine biting into a fresh Seville orange—that bright, almost zesty citrus top note—but with a delicate floral heart underneath that's sweeter and more honeyed than you'd expect. There's a subtle creaminess, like orange blossom water, with whispers of indolic depth (that slightly animalic, skin-like warmth). It's simultaneously uplifting and sensual, neither purely citrus nor purely floral, but something uniquely in-between.