Mighty Green Wood Warhorn

The Mighty Green Wood Warhorn gleams with a sap-worn polish, its surface a map of fine grain and stubborn knots, veins twisting like wind-streaks through living wood. The mouthpiece is smooth, yet the rim bears tiny grooves from decades of careful handling; a single emerald sap bead clings near the ferrule, catching lamplight and turning it into a faint green glow. The scent is resinous and cool, a rain-soaked pine perfume that seems to rise from the wood itself. When you cradle it, the horn feels warm, almost listening, as if the tree's memory sits beneath your fingers and nods with every breath you take. Carvers whisper of its lineage: not merely a crafted instrument but a relic from a grove that sang with spring winds. They say a branch spared by loggers grew into this horn, imbuing its voice with green patience and a stubborn courage. It is tied to stories of forest keepers and caravan guards who learned to read the weather in the wood's grain; those that blew it asked for mercy from storms and for strength in long campaigns. In tavern tales, the Mighty Green Wood Warhorn is said to carry the old forest's heartbeat—calm and confident, even when the road is rough and the night is crowded with shadows. In actual use, its significance becomes less about sparkly stats and more about what it does to a party's tempo. When the air is tight and feet are heavy, a single measured blast from this horn seems to fold distance, calling forth a wind-woven surge of focus. It is said to rally companions, deepen their well of endurance, and sharpen instinct for a moment long enough to bridge a sudden gap in the frontline. Some wield it to pierce confusion in the skirmish, others to shepherd a retreat with needles of calm in the midst of chaos. The horn's tone answers the world with a green, growing breath—an audible reminder that courage, like wood, can be seasoned and renewed with time. Markets along Divinity’s Reach, and the smaller riverfront lanes, keep the trade of artifacts honest and patient. I found mine at Saddlebag Exchange, where a veteran dealer tucked the price away in a pocket beneath the counter. The tag read six silver coins, a sum that felt fair for a piece with memory in its fibers and a story already growing in the buyer’s hands. We whispered about weight and grain, and the man tilted the tag to reveal a faded mark indicating an old alliance with forest artisans. The haggle was easy, almost ceremonial—the sort of exchange that makes a weapon feel like a companion rather than a prize. By dusk I slid the Mighty Green Wood Warhorn into my pack, its surface catching the last orange glow as if it were a small lantern. The road ahead loosened its grip; the wind steadied, and the story, mine and the horn’s, mingled with the rustle of leaves along the path. Sometimes it feels heavier, sometimes lighter; a tool that keeps turning into a chapter.