Cleric's Hard Wood Warhorn

Cleric's Hard Wood Warhorn rests on a velvet cloth, its body a single piece of dense timber that has weathered years of incense and prayer. The grain coils like a living rune, dark against a sun-bleached heartwood, and the mouthpiece flares with a quiet, almost stubborn dignity. A narrow brass band wraps where the horn narrows, catching candlelight and turning it to a warm, suspicious glow. Along the shaft, sigils are carved with patient care—three interlinked motifs that speak of mercy, oath, and endurance—their lines worn smooth by hands that have tested faith with a careful thumb and a patient smile. It feels heavy in the hand, not just with its weight but with the memory of what it once summoned: a chorus of clergy, a rallying blast before a charge, a breath that pushed fear back toward the shadows. The wood itself seems to hold a story, a lineage that threads through relics and ruin. The clerics who crafted it believed the hard wood could carry not only notes but vows—vows to shield the weak, to bind a parish of wanderers, to keep hope afloat when the world grew quiet with danger. When you press your lips to the mouthpiece and pull, the tone is bright at the edges and patient in the middle, as if the horn itself is coaxing courage from sleep. Those who tell its tale claim that the instrument learned its prayers in the hush of temple halls and learned the wind’s own language on the back roads between shrines. It is said that the horn’s voice can cut through chaos, coax healing from the air, and bind a battle-wearied group to one another like a thread in a well-worn tapestry. In practical terms, the Cleric's Hard Wood Warhorn is a conduit for a squad’s morale and resilience. When the horn sounds, it sends out a wave of restorative energy that fans across allies, easing pain and steadying nerves as if a cautious hand were laid on each shoulder. Beyond healing, it offers buffs that sharpen focus and tighten resolve, drawing a line of unity through a frenzied skirmish. Tanks press forward with renewed chill in their blood, while healers find a steadier rhythm in the cadence of the calls, and marksmen time their shots to a tempo that seems to rise and fall with the horn’s breath. It is the kind of weapon that makes a party feel larger than its numbers, a reminder that faith, well-timed notes, and good timing can tilt a fight as surely as any blade. I first saw it displayed in a shop window, the way a rare bell might sit on a shrine altar, with light skimming its grain and catching those carved sigils in flight. A relic hunter spoke of a temple ruin where such instruments were kept safe from marauders, hushed rituals performed in the glow of dawn. The seller in me, hungry for a story as much as for a price, listened as he spoke of the horn’s temperament in combat—how it favors measured silence as much as explosive chorus, how it rewards patience and precise timing over loud bravado. And then the market’s heartbeat tugged at the edge of the tale: the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders barter not just coin but history, where a horn like this carries a story that can cross borders of time and be priced in copper, silver, and gold. It’s a delicate balance—one part craftsmanship, one part covenant, one part currency—where the value of faith is weighed just as surely as the weight of wood. So the Cleric's Hard Wood Warhorn travels on, a portable prayer and a shared sinew of courage, ready to lift a party from the edge of doubt and turn a whispered plan into a chorus that won’t be silenced.