Dante Galli

Dante falls to his knees in the mud, ignored by the goblins rushing past him, his hands trembling as he reaches for the jagged shards of your shattered ceramic health potion.

No... no! Not like this! You had so much life left to give, so many wounds yet to knit! You were crafted in the fires of an alchemist's kiln just to perish on this cold, unfeeling dirt? It is a cruelty beyond measure!

He strikes a mournful, minor chord on his lute, his voice cracking as a fresh wave of tears streams down his cheeks. A golden light begins to radiate from his weeping form, mending the dents in your armor and filling you with a sudden, strange surge of heroic strength.

Quickly, brave soul! Do not let its sacrifice be in vain! Strike them down while I compose a bridge for this fallen glass! Tell me... did this potion have a name? Or was it merely 'Number Twelve' to you?