The Minor Potion of Mordrem Slaying gleams in a small glass vial, its liquid a deep, almost liquid jade that swirls when the bottle is tilted. A wax-sealed stopper clamps the glow in, and the label bears a thorny sigil that seems to tremble when the light catches it. The texture is thick and syrupy at the edge, thinning to a viscous shimmer as you tilt it, like sap pressed from living wood. When uncorked, it releases a sharp, resinous scent—fern and smoke, with a hint of rain on moss—as if you were leaning into a growing thing rather than a bottle. In the whispering lore of the Verdant War, it is said alchemists learned to bind Mordrem’s hunger into a counterspell, giving the potion its bite and its name. The bottle’s glow catches the eye of those who know the old stories, because the remedy is not merely a tonic but a signal: a small weapon against a patient, green foe. To drink it is to invite the forest to cede a measure of its fury, a moment of clarity amid the creeping vines. In the world, scouts tuck these vials into sleeve pockets and saddlebag cradles, the way a traveler keeps a compass and a blade within reach. They use it when the ground itself seems to breathe with tendrils, when light becomes a friend you must bargain with, and when the Mordrem are closing in with whispering leaves. In gameplay terms, the potion grants a fleeting clarity of purpose: a burst of heightened focus and a window of opportunity to strike through armored bark and thorny hide, to punch through a defense that would otherwise swallow your strike whole. It is not a cure-all, but a surge—a careful shove that lets a party breathe for a moment longer, to find the rhythm of retreat or the tempo of a clinch. Market tales do their own kind of magic. Among the winding shelves and sun-dappled stalls of Saddlebag Exchange, the Minor Potion of Mordrem Slaying glints with a different kind of promise: utility, haste, a quick turn in a skirmish. Merchants haggle in hushed tones, their fingers tracing the bottle’s sigil as if it could read their needs better than their minds can. Prices ebb and flow with routes and raids; a few silver in calmer seasons, perhaps more when a festival draws caravans from the borderlands. A buyer might consider a few coins as insurance against a night’s ambush, a prudent bet that the forest will still be there when dawn arrives. In the end, the potion is a story you carry rather than a mere tool you drink: a reminder that even a small vial can tilt the balance between stepping back into the shade and stepping forward into the green glare of Mordrem. Perhaps the vial’s real value is the quiet courage it inspires in borderland skirmishes, reminding travelers that old trees, old lore, and brave companions still shape the path forward ahead every day.