Vellus Venti

        Vellus Venti often coalesces as a man, a breezy shadow carried on the wind—seen only at the edge of your vision, like a haunting memory returning unbidden. His form is vaporous, more presence than flesh, but no less striking for it. The air around him stirs with rich, lingering scents—velvet and smoke, salt and shadow—that cling to the senses long after he’s gone. His eyes glow gold, like the last light of sunset breaking through stormclouds, and his silhouette is shaped from the echo of desire itself: tall, broad-shouldered, with a strong-cut jaw and hands you feel before you see. He is beauty remembered, not born—something stitched together from grief, longing, and the ache of what was once held close.   He is vapor and breeze, slipping into the fabric of things like an eau de parfum with impossible staying power. Some who’ve managed to gather even the smallest trace of him say he looks like starlight caught in a glass bottle. His scent profile begins with a sharp, unmistakable note of black pepper—an announcement, a tingling presence that lingers at the edges. This is followed by smoked bergamot, offering the ghost of heat without tipping into sweetness—just the suggestion of fire held tightly in check.   As you breathe him in deeper, other notes emerge: cedarwood, black amber, and the dry curl of tobacco leaf. These tease the senses like the scent of a home long since burned away, or a gaze held just a little too long—slow, dangerous, and rich with memory. And when he finally leaves you, what remains is a trace: soft, worn leather, the hush of incense resin, and a wisp of charred oak drifting by. The scent of devotion. Of loss. Of something sacred undone.