Steel Warhorn Mouthpiece

The Steel Warhorn Mouthpiece sits on the workbench, a circle of tempered steel with a bevelled lip that catches the light like a coin just minted. Its surface wears robes of bluish patina and faint scorch marks from forge fires, the kind that tell you this piece has learned patience as well as heat. Small rivets along the edge look as though they once tethered a larger mechanism, now reduced to a single, purposeful mouthpiece. Carved runes wind around the rim in a language that isn’t quite common speech—more a rhythm, a cadence—while a shallow groove runs the circumference, catching droplets of oil and fingerprints alike. It feels cool to the touch, a weight that settles in the palm with the weight of a story you’re not sure you’re ready to hear. Some say the mouthpiece carries the echo of old horn-blowers who tempered their notes to pierce the roar of battle, fusing sound with steel until the two could never part. Lore says this piece was hammered in the shadow of a collapsed fortress, where smiths struck a pact with the wind to craft weapons that could wake the dead. The mouthpiece wasn’t meant to be worn alone; it needed a horn meant to carry a chorus, a voice strong enough to rally a crowd and gentle enough to soothe a sinking morale. When fitted to a warhorn, it becomes more than a tool—it becomes a voice in the hands of a commander, a signal flare in the smoke of combat. In calmer hours, veterans speak of the mouthpiece as a keepsake of a singing age, a relic that reminds donors of courage and cadences that carried their units through long, cold marches. In gameplay, the mouthpiece is prized for what it enables: amplified calls that rally allies, sharpen courage, and lay down a map of temporary boons in a fight. It’s not merely a cosmetic flourish; it is a catalyst for coordination, a mechanical key that unlocks a suite of horn-based skills. Players attach it to a warhorn, and the sound becomes a strategic tool—commands that speed a retreat, or a blare that stamps a line with resolve. The texture of the note matters as much as the note itself, and the steel holds the memory of all the hands that made the decision to trust a single, piercing tone over the chaos of noise. When I wandered through the market lanes between skirmishes, the talk turned to price as easily as it did to weather. Saddlebag Exchange proved a reliable gauge of value, traders muttering about supply and demand as they weighed coins in their fists. The mouthpiece typically trades for a quiet few silver to a gold or two, depending on the day’s mood and the horn it will adorn, with collectors willing to pay a premium for the stories it carries. I watched a buyer press a handful of copper into a pouch and walk away with the piece gleaming anew, its edge catching the sun like a blade at dawn. In that moment, the mouthpiece felt less like metal and more like a doorway: to louder rooms, to tighter formations, to the chorus that makes a unit brave enough to press forward. So the Steel Warhorn Mouthpiece remains, cool and precise, a mouthful of wind and will—a small artifact with a mighty voice, ready to carry a crowd through the next march.