Weak Potion of Undead Slaying

Weak Potion of Undead Slaying sits on the counter, a squat glass vial no larger than a traveler's fingertip. Inside, a pale milky blue liquid writhes gently, catching lamplight and throwing a cold glow across the wooden countertop. The cork is sealed with a thin ribbon of wax, stamped with a bone sigil that looks half-remembered from some long-forgotten order. The label, curling at the edges, bears only a few scrawled letters—undead slaying, weak version—like a whisper from a guild chest long sealed away. The bottle wears its history on the glass: frost-white blooms along the base where breath from a cautious buyer has met the chill of the potion. It smells faintly of iron and rain, and when you tilt it toward a candle you can see a soft frost halo answering the flame. It is the kind of thing merchants pass between fingers with reverence, as though handling a note from a grandmother who once hunted bone-walkers in the hills. This weak variant was born in a late-night workshop between an eager apothecary and a tired hunter, meant for field skirmishes where a stronger draught would waste precious seconds. The lore says it came into being during a fever of necromantic unrest, when the living learned to bottle the last frost of the grave to slow the march of revenants long enough to seal a crypt. It is not the hero’s potion that levelled a battalion, but a fragment of courage—the steady hand that poured it, a promise that one can stand a moment longer against the pale tide. In the heat of combat, the potion earns its keep by granting a brief, shimmering edge against undead foes. The moment of draught blooms into a pale aura, and a hunter finds their aim steadier, their blows more decisive against bone and rot. It does not erase fear, but it slices through it enough to let a party press forward, to uncover a hidden tomb or rescue a dusk-light caravan from a graveyard’s creeping shadow. A single vial can turn a routine scouting run into a doorway into stories otherwise buried. At Saddlebag Exchange, the sticker on a corner shelf tells the tale in copper: six copper, the clerk notes, for a chance to tilt a skirmish toward survivors. A market lane of leather and old coins, where travelers swap tall tales for small fortunes, is where such sigils trade hands and opinions shift with the price of fear. If you listen closely, you hear more than numbers—you hear a chorus of travelers who owe their lives to a weak potion that lets them buy a little more time. So the Weak Potion of Undead Slaying remains, its glass warm from a day’s work, its frost a whisper against the grind of the world. It is one small instrument in a larger symphony, a reminder that sometimes a faint light is all that stands between a village’s sleep and the whispering dark.