Strong Potion of Undead Slaying

Strong Potion of Undead Slaying sits in a stout glass vial, its body curved like a graveyard bell. The liquid inside is a deep dusk-red, thick and fragrant with an iron-tinged tang, and tiny pale specks drift like motes of bone when the bottle is coaxed to the light. The cork is sealed with copper wax, and a brass label bears a skull drawn with such care that you can almost hear the chalky whisper of a ward being set with every glance. A thread of dried yarrow coils around the neck, as if someone tied a memory to the stopper, promising it would remember who opened it. Lorekeepers tell of a lineage of apothecaries who learned to temper necromantic fear into a practical shield, passing down whispers that this potion invites the wielder to stand where the dead would gladly walk over you, and to turn that fear into a blade against their kin. In the hands of a wary hunter, the potion becomes a hinge between danger and purpose. A single mouthful unleashes a bright, fever-bright resonance that blooms along the weapon’s edge, carving brighter wounds into undead flesh and forcing restless bones to stagger. It is not a miracle, but a careful adjustment of risk: a minute of heightened clarity when the crypt doors groan in their hinges, a moment when you can time your strike with a hunter’s rhythm rather than a scout’s hesitation. Veterans speak of using it before a siege on a necropolis, when the corridor narrows and the undead surge as if the ground itself were breathing. Taken at the right moment, the potion sharpens reflexes and steadies the hand that must sift through bone and shadow to find the living target. Pricing travels as all good rumors do, between lantern light and rain-soaked ledger. At the Saddlebag Exchange, a bustling corridor of wagons and traders that winds through the market district, unopened bottles change hands for a small handful of silver and a tale caught in a rough map. A rider once traded a cracked bottle for two silvers and a map to an abandoned shrine, murmuring that the map’s ink would fade if he slept on it, so he kept it close. The bustle shifts with whispers of new crypts uncovered, or a band of necromancers stirring in the fog; prices rise when undead gnaw at the edges of a village, and fall when peace keeps the gates shut. In this world, the Strong Potion of Undead Slaying travels not only as a commodity but as a token—proof that courage, and a careful edge, can be carried in a bottle as much as on a blade. In the stories told over fires, the potion’s glass is a doorway as much as a tool, a reminder that even in a world where the dead can walk, a single well-timed sip can tilt the balance toward the living. Some say it purifies old stains, others insist it binds bravery to the bearer forever.