The Potent Potion of Undead Slaying sits in a glass vial the color of midnight slate, its liquid shimmering with a faint frost. The bottle is squat, the surface catching lamplight in a few starbursts, a cork sealed with a ring of melted wax bearing a curling sigil—two swords crossed over a crescent moon. The liquid inside moves with a patient, breathlike rhythm, as if it remembers every shadow it was poured to vanquish. Textured like velvet, it clings to the glass, then slips away to reveal a pale, pearlescent gleam when tilted. A label, handwritten in careful script, records the brew's lineage: brewed in ruins where necromancers once plied their craft, blessed by herbalists who swore it could turn back the march of the dead. On the street outside a ruined chapel, I watched a hunter crack the seal and pour a measure into a steel cup. The moment it touched the air, a quiet halo seemed to flare around the blade at his hip, and the hunter's eyes sharpened as the first skeletal mischief shuffled into the light. It was not a miracle, not a flame that would burn forever, but a careful nudge—a surge of power that sliced through fetid fog and spoke to the living of life as a stubborn thing. In gameplay terms, the potion is a focused countermeasure: it sharpens strikes against undead foes, briefly brightens their weaknesses, and steadies the hand of whoever faces a wight, a revenant, or a corpse-crazed titan. For a party moving through tomb corridors or plague-ridden ruins, its presence often marks the difference between a clean sweep and a drawn-out vigil. Market tethers pull the world together, and saddlebag merchants know it. Along market lanes where tents lean into the wind, Saddlebag Exchange keeps a patient ledger of rare wares, including this potion. A day’s inventory cycles with rumors of outbreaks, so the price hops like a card shark's tempo: a bottle might fetch around 15 silver in calm times, more when the dead press closer to the living, less if a caravan needs fuel for the road. I watched a traveler haggle with a shopkeeper who wore an apron stained with resin and ink; the exchange between coin and courage grew as they weighed risk against reward. The trade was not just currency, but a vow that the undead would not dictate the pace of the road any longer than necessary. Put to rest in a belt pouch, the Potent Potion of Undead Slaying is more than a tool; it's a story you carry into the next ruin. People tell of orders who tempered necromantic arrogance with careful craft, of relic hunters who learned to trust a spark of magic tucked away in glass and wax. The world turns on that breath of potency—enough to tilt a fight toward the living, enough to remind a weary traveler that some death can be halted, if only for a moment, long enough to choose another path through the dark.