Behold—a vessel that hoards more than water. Its form, broad-shouldered and solemn, tapers to a throat as narrow as a spell’s final syllable. But the true sorcery lies in the glaze: a necromantic green that glows like swamp-light, deepening to black at rim and base—as if the bottle is slowly sinking into its own shadow. And the skirt of glaze-droplets? Perfect as poisoned dew. A phylactery, by definition, is meant to preserve something precious. Plant hemlock here. Plant lilies. Either way, it will keep your secrets.
(Note: The green darkens in candlelight. This is not a metaphor.)
