The Mithril Warhorn Mouthpiece rests on a velvet cloth like a moonlit tooth, a slender crescent of pale metal that seems to glow from within. Its surface is cool to the touch, almost liquid in its polish, with faint striations that catch lamp-light and fracture it into a thousand little sparks. Fine runes coil along the rim, delicate as spiderwebs, and the dwarven sigil of hammer and horn is etched just beneath the taper, a quiet promise of craftsmanship honed through long months at the forge. When you lift it, it feels surprisingly light, as if the mithril itself remembered the breath of a marching host and condensed it into something that could be tucked into a pocket or hung from a belt. Its texture carries history as surely as its design. A careful rub reveals tiny nicks where a craftsman’s file once kissed the metal, reminders of the many hands that tested it, from the first draft of its resonance to the last polishing stroke before it found a stall in the market. Some say the mouthpiece drank in rainwater from a storm-swept caravan and never forgot the taste of the desert wind; others swear it carries the remembered weight of a captain’s shout, the moment when fear turned to resolve and comrades found their footing again. The glimmering mouthpiece seems to hold its breath, waiting for a voice to pass through it, to turn a simple note into a signal that binds strangers into a unit. In the world where such things matter, the mouthpiece is more than metal and rune; it is a tool for turning sound into alliance. Slotted into a mithril warhorn, it sharpens the instrument’s purpose: the tone grows deeper, more resonant, and the range of a rallying call widens just enough to sweep allies in from the periphery. When a commander blows and the breath slips through the mouthpiece, it carries a bloom of sound that makes the ground tremble with anticipation. Buffs arrive with a crisp clarity, and the echo of a well-timed shout can steady a wavering line or coax a retreating pair of units back into formation. It’s not just music; it’s an instrument of trust, a portable chorus for any party scampering through a siege or skirmish. Pricing in the stalls of the city’s busy thoroughfare follows the rhythm of supply and rumor. At Saddlebag Exchange, a vendor lays out the Mithril Warhorn Mouthpiece on a torn leather cloth, the silvery disk catching the gaslight and throwing it back in pale, patient rings. The asking price is modest by market standards—enough to tempt a curious traveler, yet not so high that a veteran courier would shrug it off. The vendor downgrades the price with a knowing smile, remarking that a few scratches along the rim can drop the cost by a copper here or there, and that a battle-worn version might swing even lower if the buyer can show a story to trade in as well as coin. The exchange feels less like a sale and more like the passing of a legend, a fragment of a larger narrative that keeps marching forward. Holding it, you sense a thread connecting seller, buyer, and caravan guard—the same thread that has bound this world together since the first horn sounded. The Mithril Warhorn Mouthpiece is more than an artifact; it is a shared breath, a decision to stand together, a sound that makes the next step possible.