Hades is a woody, creamy and clean fragrance. A slightly camphorous opening adds an edge of the unearthly and hints at hellfire beneath, which quickly melds into a velvety white musk. The play of shadow and light will capture your heart and soul; it feels like an unexpected longing. This is a peaceful forest glade illuminated by piercing shafts of sunlight through impossibly dense trees, somber shadows crowding in, the flash of marble-white skin drawing you closer to the center. Clean but earthy, cool but warm, Hades is a study in contradiction and contrast, one which will compel you to return. With notes of smooth white musk, warm skin, white patchouli, the sunlit path into an ominous dark forest. Hades is a water perfume.
POESIE HADES REVIEWS (Based on reviews of the oil version)
Reddit: If you like Poesie's white musk, you'll love this. Plush (so plush!) white musk, paired with a light and gentle ivory patchouli that reminds me a LOT of Arcana's Eir; that same kind of spicy but not earthy white peppercorn effect. I'm not sure how well this scent represents the god of the underworld (surely Hades' scent should be more brooding than Persephone's?), but it is another spectacular iteration of Poesie's cozy white musk, this time completely un-gourmand and un-floral. The blog post describes this one as "a sensual white musk ready and willing to capture your heart and drag it underground," and it definitely captured my heart. It's a fantastic addition to my admittedly already extensive Poesie collection: easy to love if you enjoy their white musk, yet completely unique among their offerings. It is, I should note, quite short-lived; I got only a couple of hours out of it (though it lasted much longer on my coatsleeve).
Unquiet Things: What becomes of the god of the underworld when his story lacks its central theft? This fragrance answers with quiet subversion. There’s something contemplative here, almost monastic—clean yet somehow ancient. Here is Hades who never ascended to claim what wasn’t his. Not the predatory fog of abduction but a crystalline solitude—the cool, expansive emptiness of a throne room perpetually missing what it never knew to want. Something in this scent carries the contradiction of sunlight penetrating deep forest shadows—warmth that shouldn’t exist in darkness but somehow does. Not the stereotypical gloom of the underworld but a calm, steady light uncomplicated by possession or desire. Not passion but the unexpected vulnerability of a god eternally untouched. There’s tenderness here, and a strange innocence preserved by isolation. The boundary between realms remains unviolated—not a portal for theft and trauma but a liminal space respected, left uncrossed. This fragrance holds the dignity of restraint, the hushed sacred quality of desire never acted upon. No pomegranate stains here—only the translucent stillness of a domain complete unto itself, ruled by a god who never learned to yearn beyond his borders. Between these two fragrances lies the negative space of a myth unmade—the sweet relief of a story never needing to be rewritten, sanitized, or reclaimed. Just two deities, whole within themselves, existing in separate completeness across an unviolated boundary.
