Oasiz Server, Deathstalker Castle / City of Immortalis.  (non Gor)

​​​Once upon a time 
                              a lady arrived in the City of Immortalis.
Her name?  Mánŏn.  
​Mánŏn Guerlain.
​ She began.......The House of Guerlain, Perfumery. 

The stuff of legend? 
    Famine or fame ?
Only time would would tell.

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                                          I am Mánŏn..... 
                                         Mánŏn Guerlain.
                                            I am a Parfumier .
                                          ​I am the face and grace behind
                                          ​The House of Guerlain
                                             
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 19 High Street
 The City of Immortalis 

​​       
       Perfume   
.... beautifully presented....  
                liquid perfections.... silent  expressions.


                   

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Please make yourself comfortable. 
​We can relax  and  chat a bit by the fire's side  about this and that.







​                                           

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Come if you  like into my working spaces.
A  window into   
how perfume is created. 

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​Second floor living spaces

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​We go out for a walk, Lilly and I. A little walk about town kind of thing.  Enjoying the sights and sounds, the scents. 
​              Until.
Lilly disappears, only to return with her prize, her steal. Presenting it to me with such a smile who could become angry? Holding  a flower from a Vendor. She has no coin so I pay up, mollifying the  enraged Vendor.  But. Behind that enraged face, he's laughing. I can tell.  I speak harshly to Lilly about the perils of stealing.  For she would be tasty  fried and served with catsup. 

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Some times Lilly and I  wander to the Valley of the Horses.  I harvest the wild flowers  growing in rich profusion there.  The splendor of their scent is  no comparison  to their cultivated cousins. 
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I bring a lunch and sit on a rocky outcrop watching these  majestic creatures at  play on the hills and in the fields   of their sacred valley.






​Sometimes.....I am gifted to ride.
I've no idea who such a generous benefactor could be. There is never a signature. Only a beautiful horse, tacked up,  my name on an otherwise blank envelope attached to the saddle. Nothing more nor is there anything inside the envelope. The script is not by the hand of woman. The strokes  are far too bold.  I am grateful to whomever it may be.
​Lilly stays behind, curled up in a cave,  and dreams of this and that, waiting my return. 

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​Come away from the windows, Lilly. Supper is getting cold.

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