Weak Potion of Sons of Svanir Slaying sits in a delicate vial, its glass pale and ribbed like ice-frosted reeds. The liquid inside is a milky, ice-blue swirl that seems to breathe when you tilt the bottle, drawing a nervous shimmer from the candlelight. A fragile parchment label clings to the side, the words stamped in uneven runic ink that refuses to sit still, as if whispering a warning to those who would meddle with frost-bitten loyalties. The stopper is a cork threaded with a thin silver wire, and a wax seal of a snowflake, cracked by the cold, is pressed over the top as if to keep a secret from slipping away into the air. The potions’ aura feels as if it carries a memory of winter nights spent watching a camp flicker with shadows and argument. Lore has it that this particular brew was born in a skirmish between a hunter and the Sons of Svanir, within a ravine choked with ice and broken banners. Some say a frost-worn alchemist measured out breath and memory from the battlefield itself, bottling it with a drop of the bitter cold that lingers on their armour. In that sense, the Weak Potion is not merely a remedy or a tool; it is a fragment of a story, a reminder of the cost of confronting a foe that wears the cold as a second skin. In practical terms, the potion is a focused boon. When consumed, it sharpens the user’s strikes against the Sons of Svanir by thinning the frost-wrought hides they favor and exposing the quick seams where their defenses falter. It is not a general antidote to all enemies, nor a grand spell in a bottle, but a narrow, precise aid—a momentary edge seized in the middle of a snowstorm where every breath can mean the difference between a failed swing and a clean, decisive cut. Hunters who wander the frostcanyons learn to time its use, pairing the potion with a precise strike or a carefully aimed power that can shatter a shielded flank. In a world where factions cling to their cold vows and icy banners, such a small thing can tilt ahe adrift a critical encounter, turning a stubborn skirmish into a rousing, hard-won victory. Prices dance with the wind at Saddlebag Exchange, where traders, travelers, and skald-brokers haggle under a awning of tattered cloth. I watched a pair of hands exchange glimmering coins for a worn bottle, the seller’s smile pale as frost, the buyer counting coppers with a practiced rhythm. The listing suggested a price around a couple of silver, though it shivered with the market’s moods—rising when frost-ward raids spiked, easing when the snows thinned and the Sons of Svanir’s patrols receded. It’s a small cost for a chance at turning an otherwise treacherous encounter into a story you can tell around a campfire, a moment when a single vial stitched a thread through the larger tapestry of the world and the battles that bind it.