Carrion Destroyer Warhorn

The Carrion Destroyer Warhorn rests on a rough peg, its horn carved from bleached bone that catches the light like frost on bone. The surface is pitted and cool to the touch, etched with sigils of scavenging beasts that run in spirals along the length, and a lacquered leather strap, stiff with resin, weaves around the mouthpiece. When you lift it, a faint scent of copper and orchard resin comes with a whisper of old rain. The horn's tip is bound with brass rings, each engraved with a tally of battles won by those who rode with the carrion wind, a reminder that even in rot there is memory. In whispers, the horn is said to have been tempered in ash and salt, taken from the throat of a carrion devourer, fused with the bone of a hunter's pledge. It traveled through camps like a weathered omen, calling watchers of the dead to attention and guiding caravans through plague-sick nights. Some say the horn's notes can peel away the veil between life and afterlife long enough for a moment of reprieve; others claim it binds loyal tremors of the earth to the will of whoever blows it. In combat, its voice becomes a metronome for the squad; its chords coax weary allies to hold the line as the world tilts with charge and retreat. A few notes can sharpen the party's focus, faster reloads, quicker chants, a temporary shield of bone-dust that clings to the skin and shields a vulnerable ally. The horn also calls fetid echoes from the ground—bone wolves, skeletal banners, or whispers of the dead—that nibble at the edges of enemy formations. It is not a pure damage dealer; it is a narrative tool, turning a skirmish into a chapter where every breath has weight and consequence. The horn's power grows with the wielder's resolve, becoming louder, more insistent, less a toy and more a pact with the world beneath the soil. The horn's stubborn beauty makes it a coveted relic, trading hands in sunlit stalls and shadowed back rooms. A traveler once paused at Saddlebag Exchange to weigh it against coin and opportunity; the dealer's scales clicked between gold and silver as they bartered, the horn shifting hands for roughly two gold to three, depending on mood and the rumor of its previous battles. The price isn't just metal, but memory—the story carried in the creases of its strap, the sting of old rain, the sense that it belongs to a line of keepers who learned to move with rot and wind. To own it is to accept a responsibility: to listen for the next turning point in a village's despair and to answer with a note that steadies, then unsettles, until the next dawn. When the horn finally sounds, the world seems to lean closer, listening for the next sign of life in the rot, some travelers claim its tone carries talismans of old scouts, echoing in the wind for those who walk behind the rot.