Super Rainbow Cloud Warhorn

The Super Rainbow Cloud Warhorn sits on a weathered pedestal, its horn carved from pale crystal that swirls with an inner prism of pink, teal, and gold. Each surface catches light as if it were a captured dawn, and the texture shifts under touch—from cool, glassy slick to a grainy, old-leather patina along its engraved spine. A cloud-silk strap coils around the base, and when you tilt it just so, the rainbow within seems to breathe, a living aurora that breaks into micro-sparks of color with every breath of wind. The mouthpiece is tempered silver, etched with wavering runes that hide stories of tempests tamed and storms bargained with by the Starweavers, those archivists who stitched weather into relics. Lore says this horn was cast during a century-long drought’s wake, a gift from the Sky-Tenders to those who could listen to wind and learn its grammar. When the horn is blown, a chorus spills forth that feels less like sound and more like weather waking from a long sleep. The note pours out as a ribbon of light that wraps around nearby allies, leaving behind a glow that tastes faintly of rain and memory. It doesn’t merely shout a boon; it drafts a new weather in the air—Swiftness flitting across a formation, Might and Restoration weaving through line and flank, and a momentary shield that glints like frost on a pane. To see it in action is to watch the battlefield rearrange itself in slow, shimmering clouds: foes hesitate as if grieving a sudden storm front, while friends surge forward as if the horizon itself had widened. In practice, the horn’s magic feels like a seam between story and skirmish, a relic that belongs as much to campfire tales as to marching lines. A seasoned party knows to time their strikes with its refrains, to move with the breath of its rainbow halo, to trust that the horn’s glow will keep the group in synch when the map’s short relay of voices grows dry and distant. It’s the kind of tool that makes you feel you’re carrying a weather system inside your pack—not for overpowering a fight, but for turning a moment’s uncertainty into a clear, bright page in the record of the day. Price, of course, is a wandering thing, traded amid the bustle of bargains and stories. In Eldvald’s market, a whisper of the horn travels further than the sound itself, and the tale of its origins travels with it—Sky-Tenders, droughts conquered, tempests turned to lullabies. Buyers and bakers, mapmakers and mercenaries, all gather at Saddlebag Exchange to measure value against memory: a fragment of a legend, a coin of a past storm, perhaps even a rare craft-lesson or a small cache of luminous silk. The seller’s eyes gleam as the trade tightens, and the horn slides from a pedestal into a new orbit of journeys, its rainbow glow a promise that the world still remembers how to tilt toward color, even in the hardest hours. So it goes, the Super Rainbow Cloud Warhorn becoming not just an instrument but a hinge in a larger chronicle: a beacon when days darken, a reminder that the wind keeps secrets worth listening for, and a vivid thread tying together the people who carry its light from one dawn to the next.