CHRONICLES OF THE FLAMEBORNE (THE WEREWOLF'S CURSE)
He shuffled to a cluttered table and lifted a small white container, its glass belly glowing faintly green.
“One drop of this,” he whispered, almost reverently, “and the victim becomes a vegetable. I used castor plants, oleander, snakeroot, the deadliest of nature’s children. And I bound them with magic.” His voice broke into an unhinged laugh. “Only one with true power and formidable magic could ever detect the poison. To all others—even the finest physicians, it will appear as nothing. No cure. No remedy. Only decline. Days, weeks, months, years, your victim will waste away as long as you wish.”
He clutched the vial close, pride gleaming in his eyes, as if it were a holy relic.
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