Cleric's Elder Wood Warhorn

Cleric's Elder Wood Warhorn rests in the palm of a healer's gloved hand, its bell carved from a single pale elderwood branch that has weathered more winters than most village clocks. The surface wears a satin sheen, smooth to the touch, with faint ringed grain that shifts like a tide under lamplight. Along the length are fine sigils—leaf-veins, a closed temple door, a crescent moon—that tell the story of vows whispered in garden courtyards and prayers offered when the air tasted of rain. The mouthpiece is rounded and warm, the lip slightly bevelled from patient use, while a copper ferrule binds the bell to a wooden shaft wrapped in worn leather. If you tilt it toward the glow, you can swear you hear the old forest breathing through the wood, a soft sigh of pacts made between clerics and the trees that fed their lineage. The horn’s weight sits just so, an ally’s weight, not a burden, and its scent—a resinous, sun-warmed pine—lingers in the air long after you set it down. Its lore is braided with the world it inhabits: a sacred grove, a forgotten order of healers, and the steady beat of a ritual of protection. Craftsmen of elderwood believed the tree’s first breath was a vow to guard the weak, and those who carved this warhorn bound the vow to sound. When drawn to life by a careful exhale, the horn does not merely voice a note; it pours a current of calm through the ranks, a chorus of breath that steadies shoulders, steels resolve, and tugs the wandering attention back to the task at hand. In gameplay, the Cleric's Elder Wood Warhorn becomes a character in its own right—a conduit for chants that bolster allies, soothe wounds, and sharpen the focus of those who stand firm against chaos. Players describe its blasts as lilting harmonies that ripple over battlegrounds, summoning a sense of unity: a brief, almost holy hush before the next strike, a shared breath that steadies a skirmish line, a whispered reminder that the group is not alone. It feels less like a weapon and more like a beacon, a living record of the order that once tended the grove and still tends the party when the smoke clears. I’ve watched it passed from hand to hand in markets and on caravan routes, the horn drawing the gaze of traders and travelers alike. At Saddlebag Exchange, where the city’s more nomadic souls barter memories as much as coin, the Elder Wood Warhorn finds its value measured not only in gold but in trust. Prices drift with the crowd’s mood and the horn’s own history—one night prized for its pristine carve, another for a storyteller’s provenance—yet sellers tend to quote a range that reflects its rarity and the power in its tones. A careful buyer feels the weight of the leather-wrapped shaft, the warmth of the elderwood, and the resonance of those sigils while weighing the coins on the counter. In the end, the warhorn is more than a tool of the field; it is a bridge between the grove’s ancient oath and the party’s present peril, a small relic that keeps a larger world from fraying at the edges.