A coil of bright emerald, of scale and of spine,
Asleep in a liquid of venomous wine.
A king in his cradle, a hatchling of dread,
Spared from the ruins where great heroes tread.
He sleeps in the glass with a small, deadly grace,
With yellow eyes hidden in a tiny embrace.
A drop of his draft means a swift, stony doom—
So wake not the serpent that rests in this room.
Warning: Keep the label facing forward. If the hatchling opens its eyes and catches your gaze through the glass, the petrification is instant.
Bottled Basilisk
R 450,00Price
Out of Stock
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