Rampager's Elder Wood Warhorn

Rampager's Elder Wood Warhorn rests on the desk of a timber-framed smithy, its form a living sculpture: the body carved from a single piece of elder wood, its grain curling like nervous roots beneath a satin finish that catches lamp-light and glints with a quiet, almost ceremonial sheen. The bore is a clean, blackened ring, the mouthpiece a smooth, burnished brass that fits the lips as if it were made for a pirate’s oath or a forest’s old promise. Runes thread along its length in a delicate, vine-like script, and a thin leather strap, cracked with time, loops once around the horn as if to keep it tethered to a memory rather than a hand. It looks, in short, like something that could have marched out of a hundred winters and yet still carry the scent of spring sap and fresh rain—a weapon and a relic, tangled in one elegant reliquary. Lore threads into its texture the moment you tilt the horn to study the etchings. Elders tell of forests that spoke in signals rather than rumors, of warriors who trusted a horn to breathe coherence into their scattered units. The Rampagers—ruthless in skirmish and patient in retreat—are said to have carved the elder wood from trees the way a hunter carves a path: with restraint, with respect, with the belief that power should be earned rather than exploited. The horn’s markings allegedly honor that pact: a winding crest that hints at predators and protectors, a reminder that the instrument’s true strength lies not in its tone alone but in the discipline of those who play it. In daily use, the warhorn becomes a thread that ties a party’s purpose to a shared moment. When drawn, its call cuts clean through the confusion of melee and chaos, sending a pulse through nearby allies that feels almost tactile—the air thickens, steps align, and the rhythm of the battlefield shifts from improvisation to coordinated momentum. The notes aren’t merely loud; they are signals—ranging, depending on the build, from waking a stubborn endurance to brief bursts of speed, from sharpening focus to broad, communal resilience. It’s not a weapon of direct damage, but a catalyst, a drummer’s baton that keeps a team’s tempo when the fight threatens to fracture into clashing, uncontrolled noise. In narrative terms, the Rampager’s elder wood carries the spirit of the forest warrior: measured, patient, and terrifyingly effective when armies lean into a single, unified breath. Market chatter gives the horn its next chapter. In a crowded bazaar, candlelight flickers over a stall where Saddlebag Exchange keeps a curated line of relics and blades—and this warhorn sits among them, its lilting scent of pine and old resin mingling with oil and grit. A trader names a price in silver, a rarity for most crowds, but not for collectors who understand its layered value: a balance of history, craftsmanship, and battlefield utility. The price tag—read aloud with a careful nod—moves with the market’s mood, sometimes climbing on a good whisper of lore, sometimes easing when demand cools and the horn rests in a glass case beneath iron brackets. As dusk settles and the market quiets, the Rampager’s Elder Wood Warhorn seems to hum with a story that isn’t finished. It waits for the next march, the next skirmish, the next chorus spoken aloud by comrades who know that true power lies not just in the horn’s mouthpiece, but in the courage of those who answer its call.