Then, too, the natives are mortally afraid of the numerous whippoorwills which grow vocal on warm night. It is vowed that the birds are psychopomps lying in wait for the souls of the dying, and that they time their eerie cries in unison with the sufferer's struggling breath. If they can catch the fleeing soul when it leaves the body, they instantly flutter away chittering in daemoniac laughter; but if they fail, they subside gradually into a disappointed silence. - H.P. Lovecraft, "The Dunwich Horror"The Whippoorwill scent was entirely pulled together by the Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab, and is theirs and theirs alone. I do wish they'd bring it back.
A foreboding, tenebrific death rattle; the scent of a dying breath as it wafts into the marshland: Spanish moss, cedar, black pepper, oakmoss, juniper, bamboo reeds and cardamom.