Malign Green Wood Warhorn

Malign Green Wood Warhorn rests in the crook of my palm, a slender instrument carved from a single, living-looking block of green-tinged wood. The grain coils like a nerve beneath a lacquer that catches light with a dull, emerald glow. The mouthpiece is bone-white and cool, worn smooth by years of practice, while the rim bears a row of shallow nicks—scars of hands that learned to coax sound from something stubborn. Along its length run sigils: curling vines, ash-gray runes, and a small, blackened maw where the malice supposedly sleeps. The horn feels warm to the touch when the forest is near, as if the wood remembers rain and ash and a thousand whispered bargains. Legends say it was hewn by a pact-touched woodsman who bargained with a forgotten echo of the deep woods, binding a temperamental spirit to a tool of mercy and menace. When blown, the Malign Green Wood Warhorn pours the forest into the air: a wave of color and sound that mends wounded guards, sharpens resolve, and unsettles foes with a tremor in the bones. The notes carry more than music; they bend momentum, prick at the nerves of the unprepared, and call forth a chorus of shifting watchers, as if the trees themselves lean closer to listen. For those who fight beside a campfire or on a cliffside lookout, the horn is a pledge: a promise that the wood will speak up when courage falters. In practice, its power is not simply in sound but in timing. A careful blow can grant allies a surge of focus, a shield of green-lit resilience, or a momentary hush that breaks an enemy's cadence. It's a tool for misdirect, for pausing a skirmish to let a healer reclaim the rhythm of the fight, for turning a narrow chokepoint into a stage where nature's displeasure is made manifest. Those who wield it learn to listen as much as they play—the forest's heartbeat becomes their metronome, and missteps become opportunities to echo back a stronger note. The Malign Green Wood Warhorn does not shout victory so much as invite it, if you know when to press the reed and when to pause so the world can catch its breath again. On a recent market morning, I found it again in the bustle near Saddlebag Exchange, where traders hawk curios with the same practiced skepticism as any veteran hunter. The stall's ledger glowed with a careful tally of ownerships and memories, the price tagged with a mark that spoke of rarity and risk. The buyer behind the counter spoke of supply lines, of old logs rescued from storms and sent to workshops where the wood learned to remember its own legends. Saddlebag Exchange, with its chatter and coins, is not just a shop.