Berserker's Destroyer Warhorn

The Berserker's Destroyer Warhorn sits heavy in the hand, a triumph of weathered brass and bone that looks as if it weathered a thousand storms. Its body is a sinuous curve of dark, burnished metal, stitched here and there with rivets that glint like fallen stars. The horn itself flares from the body in a crescent, the inner edge pale and almost ivory against the mottled exterior, as if lightning had cut a scar along its length. Runic serpents coil along the shaft in a coppery thread, and when the light catches them just right they seem to wake, faintly warming under the skin like a remembered blaze. The strap is a strip of worn leather, threaded with small beads that once marked victories, now only telltales of long journeys and louder battles. It carries the scent of oil, smoke, and the lair of a forge that never truly quiets, a relic that feels alive in your palm. Lore clings to it as a fog clings to a coastline. They say the horn was forged by a Berserker clan who rode into the teeth of winter storms and roared until the wind itself grew calm enough to listen. The Destroyer name comes from a pact etched in the copper inlay—a vow that its powers would not glorify one skirmish but bind a squad through a dozen night-black marches. When it is blown, the notes spill out in a chorus that sounds like armor grinding on stone and a heartbeat hammered into the air. Voices, old as iron, murmur in the creases of its surface, reminding the bearer that might and resolve can be shared, but the price is always the first breath of fear. In the heat of a fight, the horn’s significance becomes a living thing. It doesn’t simply make noise; it stitches unity. A single blast can spark a surge of Might and Fury in nearby allies, a gust of momentum that sends weary legs back into motion and steadies the line as arrows rain down like fall leaves. The second note settles the tempo, a deeper roar that calls the front ranks to lean into the charge, while a softer, higher counterpoint can coax the healer and the flankers to move with the same rhythm as the horn’s echo. It feels less like equipment and more like a captain’s voice made tangible, a pact between the wearer and everyone who follows. Market chatter adds color to the myth. I watched a trader at Saddlebag Exchange weigh the horn’s worth in the clink of coins and a few curious trinkets, the price tag dangling from a thin thread of string while he talked of supply, demand, and the kind of courage that can be bought with the right amount of gold and stories. The bargain was never just about value; it was about the idea that a single horn could turn a group of strangers into a unit that can weather a storm and emerge with the day’s memory intact. So the Berserker's Destroyer Warhorn rests in its case for a night or two, waiting for the moment a squad needs a voice that cannot be silenced. When it finally roars again, it doesn’t just announce an attack—it reclaims hope from the din and reminds the world that even in ruin, a chorus can lead the way.