Sinister Scavenged Obsidian Warhorn

Sinister Scavenged Obsidian Warhorn sits on the table, its midnight surface a mosaic of glassy facets that drink the lamplight and return it fractured. The lip is jagged where the relic was snapped from a larger piece, yet the edge has the careful precision of a crafted danger. Inside, a dull ember glows as if a furnace slept beneath the obsidian, and a faint rasp of metal answers every tilt toward the dark. Leather straps, worn smooth by years of travel, hold the horn in place, while a ring of etched sigils winds along its throat, telling stories of caravans and wardens long since fallen. When you raise it and blow, the sound is not a bright trumpet but a low, crystalline crack, like ice parting under a winter moon. The note travels with a quiet, icy wind, catching feet and unsettling foes, while lending allies a sudden steadiness and a hint of courage. In the heat of a skirmish, it becomes a pivot point: a rallying call to push, a warning to hold, and a cue to step through a curtain of chaos with a confident stride. Its rarity makes listeners pause, lean in, and move with intention rather than reflex. Lore haunts the horn as thick as smoke. Some insist it was forged from shards torn free of a fallen obsidian drake, scavenged by traders who never speak of the price power demands. Others swear sigils from a venerable caravan guild were pressed into the metal to bind mercenaries to a code even when the streets burn. The scavenged nature is deliberate: every notch, every gloss, a memory of hands that hacked at ruin to salvage something worth more than gold. It is both relic and warrant, a promise that a single blast can tilt a street from fear to a story, and a crowd from waiting to acting. Markets drift with the horn’s allure, and the Saddlebag Exchange is where its price often lands in the daylighted hours of trade. I watched a buyer edge toward the stall with a ledger that glowed faintly in the lamplight, weighing relics and rumors with equal care. The horn wasn’t pushed as a showpiece but offered as a practical instrument: a tradeable artifact, yes, but also a tool for the road. A quarry of iron relics, a tightly rolled map nicked from a wandering caravan, and a price tag that hovered between gold and good fortune. Some days it fetches five bright coins; other evenings seven are the whispering consensus, and a bargain can hinge on a tale worth telling. In Saddlebag Exchange, the horn’s value is as much about the stories it carries as the echo it produces. Back on the street, the horn feels like part of a larger procession: a device for guiding traders, a signal for skirmishes, a reminder that every artifact travels through hands and markets before it marks a moment. When a night market hushes and a caravan nears, the Sinister Scavenged Obsidian Warhorn can tilt the mood from cautious waiting to confident action. Its echo lingers after the last bell rings, a memory of steps taken, bargains struck, and friends who chose to stand rather than flee. In that way, the horn is more than metal; it’s a thread that ties the road together—one breath, one story, at a time.