Minor Potion of Inquest Slaying

The Minor Potion of Inquest Slaying is a small amber vial, its glass curved like a teardrop and sealed with a wafer-thin cork. The liquid inside shimmers with a pale ember, swirling as if it remembers every ward it has ever cracked. The label is pressed with sigils—tiny runes that flare briefly when you tilt the vial toward light. Lore whispers that it was distilled in a forgotten lab where Inquest wards once twisted against silver daggers, a rarity born of bold experiments and cautious apologies. In practice, the potion slants toward the Inquest’s own knives and tomb-wrought sigils, thinning their defenses long enough for a strike to land true. Scouts tuck a drop into a palm before a wary advance; stealthy ambushes hinge on that moment when the glow of enchantment cracks and a boss-eye opens. In quarries and ruined gates, it isn't a miracle cure, but a careful nudge that lets steel follow through where it once balked. Its presence turns a routine skirmish into a small, personal puzzle: how to maneuver around wards, how to time your strike, how to exploit the moment before the Inquest re-centers. I watched a caravan barter for it at the Saddlebag Exchange, where a tinker’s cart let coin sing against a heap of dried herbs. Prices drift with the market's tides, the vendor murmuring that today’s stock was worth a handful of silver, enough to tempt a curious buyer and a cautious gatherer. At Saddlebag Exchange, I heard whispers that the potion’s longevity comes from a rare seal that slows decay in enchantments, a detail that makes it more than a single-use charm. Carried into dusk-lit ruins, it feels almost like a promise: you won’t win every fight, but you may walk in with a measure of control, a margin for mercy. People speak of other potions for different enemies, but the Inquest slayer keeps finding its way back to the same stories: a quiet vial, a loud moment, a path cleared by a careful hand. In the end, the potion writes its own ending where there are always more wards to pierce and more crossings to endure, a reminder that every small tool can tilt a larger fate. If you ask the person watching your back, they’ll tell you it’s not about the bottle so much as the trust you place in what it carries—the possibility that a careful hand can outpace a stubborn necromancer. So the Minor Potion of Inquest Slaying sits on a shelf beside maps and rope, a quiet talisman for the next doorway, the next choice, the next echo of a world that still believes in small, precise victories. And when the ink dries on the record of one expedition, someone will always recall that amber vial, that hint of shelter in a collapsing corridor, and the small, stubborn courage it helped ignite. In such corners, a single bottle matters: a tool and a story, handed from traveler to traveler, carrying hope between ruins and dawn.