Malign Green Wood Warhorn

Malign Green Wood Warhorn glints with a sickly, life-leached sheen, as if a blade of evergreen pressed against a window of sundown. The wood is pale and twisting, stained by a resinous lacquer that catches the light in emerald flashes. The surface is rough with natural grain, yet someone has etched runes along its length—thin, like spiderwebs of ink—telling stories in a tongue you almost recall from your childhood among the green places. The mouthpiece is wrapped in a copper wire that has darkened to river-brown, and a whisper of balsam escapes when you bring it close, the scent of pine and rain on needles. It feels warm in your hands, as if the lesion of some ancient fever still breathes in its core. The name is carved into the end cap in a script that shifts when you blink, suggesting a malice threaded through its history. It is a weapon’s horn, yes, but one carved by a hand that believed a forest could offer counsel—and a warning. Within its grooves, you sense a lore connection to the Verdant Choir, a long-forgotten circle said to harvest whispers from the living trees. They spoke of a time when winds carried messages not between towns but between roots, and the Malign Green Wood Warhorn was the microphone for the forest’s own sorrow and advice. When you raise it, the horn seems to murmur with a chorus you can barely hear, a chorus that swells in your chest and spills into the surrounding air. People nearby feel a pressure of expectancy, a sense that something in the world expects you to do more than simply strike the next target. In gameplay, its significance arises not from brute force but from conversation with the battlefield. A well-timed blast from this horn can bolster allies, sharpen their focus, and peel back the fog of confusion that clings to skirmishes. It crackles with a strange vitality that makes your party feel coordinated, as if the trees themselves are choreographing your steps. Some can temper the malice of its aura with steadier hands, using the wood’s eerie resonance to extend boons, hasten movement, or reveal hidden threats long enough for a plan to unfold. It is not a weapon to blast your way through an army; it is a conductor’s baton that guides a small rhythm of survival. Prices drift through the market like leaves caught in a current, sometimes steady and sometimes capricious. Traders whisper that at Saddlebag Exchange you can glimpse the horn’s true story in its price—how many seasons of wear and how many battles it has weathered, how the forest outside the city has leaned into its will. People who seek the horn tend to see themselves as part archaeologists, part caretakers, trying to mend a thread between the sacred grove and the crowded streets. That tension—the reminder that power is written in wood and wind—sustains the legend as surely as the horn sustains a chorus.