Weak Potion of Inquest Slaying

A small amber vial sits on the desk, its glass slightly pitted around the rim, the Weak Potion of Inquest Slaying swirling with a lazy, viscous motion. The cork is stained a deep rust from long neglect, and a faded label in runic script bears the potion’s grim name. A thin film clouds the surface, catching the light like a wisp of smoke, and when you tilt the bottle a few stubborn motes cling to the glass. Its scent is sharp and medicinal, with hints of brass, old ink, and something faintly floral—an unusual blend that whispers of secret labs and outlawed experiments. In the legends etched near the market walls, it is said to have been brewed at the edge of a ruined monastery where the Inquest once tested minds against metal and flame. Some say the vial’s warmth lingers on the fingers long after it’s poured, a reminder of a ritual’s whisper. Used in skirmishes and shadowed expeditions, the potion is not a showpiece but a tool. In gameplay terms, a single dose temporarily dulls the target’s mental defences and thins their wards, letting a focused strike land where fear had held. The effect is brief but decisive: wards crumble, and the party gains a moment to press forward. It’s about turning a stalemate into a window of opportunity, a hinge on which an encounter can swing toward success. Many field operatives keep one bottle tucked in a pocket or saddlebag, ready to tilt the balance when the Inquest’s rituals tighten like a noose. On the market shelves, the story threads through commerce as naturally as rumor. At Saddlebag Exchange, traders speak softly of steady restocking and the odd shortage after a storm. A careful vendor will price a vial at around one silver, sometimes a touch more, depending on demand, with bargains whispered to those who trade favors rather than coins. I watched a weary courier argue for a fair price, and the seller braced the bottle as if you were buying not a commodity but a passport—permission to slip past a ward or hold a moment longer with a dying plan. The market is not math here; it’s a map of alliances, a ledger of risk, and a reminder that every drop travels from ruined monasteries to bustling stalls and into the heat of a coordinated assault. And so the Weak Potion of Inquest Slaying becomes more than glass and liquid. It is a thread in the tapestry of who dares to confront the Inquest, who trades with fate, and who reads the tremor in a warded hall. Its value lies not in bottle thickness or hue, but in what it enables: a party to press forward when fear would pull them back, to listen for danger and act just before the bells toll. In the crowded alleys between the market, the ink-streaked notes, and the dim campfire glow, the tale of this potion continues—a small beacon for those who strive to outlive the whispers of the Inquest, one brave breath at a time. The use of such a tool is not without controversy, and guildmasters often debate whether tighter controls should be placed on its trade.