Potion of Inquest Slaying

The Potion of Inquest Slaying sits in a slender glass vial, its liquid a deep, blue-black that swirls with a faint copper glow when the lantern light catches it just right. The surface seems almost alive, like a small night sky bottled tight, and the viscous liquid beads slowly along the inner walls, leaving a map of faint fingerprints as you tilt it. The stopper is a flat, burnt-amber nub, sealed with a ring of wax etched with a sigil that resembles a whispering eye. The label is a fragment of parchment stained by edges of travel, ink smeared into runes that speak of ward-breaks and old bargains. In the hand, the bottle feels cool, almost ceremonial, as if it carries a pact as well as a purpose. Lore-old and practical, the potion is said to have been born from a convergence of alchemists who studied the ruins where the Inquest once gathered their grim machinery. They believed that to face the Inquest properly one must not only strike true but also read the signs in the air—the tremor of magic, the scent of old secrets, the way the fabric of a room hums when a ward falters. So this slaying potion was brewed not merely to poison or burn, but to invite a foe’s defenses to misstep, to reveal the invisible threads that crown a creature’s resilience, and to bend the moment when the fight turns from theory to weaponry. The result is a liquid that tastes faintly of iron and citrus, a reminder that danger often travels with a tang of memory. In practice, the potion slips into a larger rhythm of exploration and risk. Adventurers carry it into ruined halls where the Inquest still whisper through conduits of ash and echo. A single draught can sharpen perception, quicken a reaction, and puncture the veil that makes the Inquest so hard to pin down. It is not a miracle cure, but a trusted partner—a way to tilt a difficult encounter toward a safer outcome, or to buy a breath for the party when the wards flare and the room fills with the hiss of arcane locks snapping back into place. Because the Inquest are patient manipulators of threat, the potion’s value grows with the pace of the corridor and the stubbornness of the enemies it targets. Market days bring it to life in another way, tucked into satchels and wagons along the cobblestone lanes near the Saddlebag Exchange. There, a wary merchant with ink-stained fingers will tell you that its usefulness is proven, its price fair, and its legend worth the coin. I paid a measured amount—just over a silver and a handful of copper—to add one bottle to my pack, bargaining with a smile and a nod, the kind of small victory that makes the road feel less heavy. The exchange is a chorus of offers and stories, and the Potion of Inquest Slaying sits among them, not just as a tool, but as a thread that links memory to action, rumor to risk, and the quiet bravery of those who walk into the broken light of the old world armed with a single, shimmering vial.