Rampager's Hard Wood Warhorn

Rampager's Hard Wood Warhorn sits on the worktable, a single stout piece of ash turned into a weapon and a trumpet at once. Its body is a dark, satin-smooth slab, the grain whispering with age as if the tree itself remembers every storm it weathered. The mouthpiece is carved from a horn-like segment, lighter in color and rubbed to a pale sheen, while bronze rivets glint along a slim spine that runs the length of the instrument. The edges have been beveled so that it rings true when blown, not rough or harsh, and you can feel the weight settle into your grip as if it had chosen you, not the other way around. Fingers trace the etched runes along the facade—feral curving lines that catch the light and seem to tremble at the hint of a chant—lore layered into wood and metal, a gift from hands that hunted the wild and came back with a story. Locals speak of it in hushed tones, not merely as a tool but as a record of campaigns and campfires. Some say the wood was tempered in the heart of a great forest spirit, a guardian whose memory is said to linger in the instrument’s tone. When a wielder raises it, the warhorn doesn’t merely sound; it releases a rhythm that courses through the ranks, bending fear into focus and fatigue into resolve. The notes ride the air like a leather-scented breeze, cutting through chaos and guiding a line into formation. It is said the rampager who carried it learned to listen for the earth’s own heartbeat in the moment the horn spoke, turning whispers of wind into a chorus that steadied a march through rain, mud, and the clamor of distant battle. In the hands of a seasoned fighter, the Rampager’s Warhorn becomes more than a weapon; it becomes a command, a tempo, and a promise. Its blasts unleash shouts that rally allies, sharpen reflexes, and reshape the tempo of a skirmish. A careful player learns to time a call just as enemies surge, to weave a thrumming pulse into a frontline that wavers, to coax a desperate push into something near inevitability. Its presence in a party tells a story—that someone has mastered the art of turning fear into momentum, of turning a narrow corridor into a corridor of opportunity. It is the instrument of a storyteller in steel, a relic that turns a battlefield into a living page where every decisive note writes a line of resolve. Market talk threads through the narrative as well, not the cold arithmetic of numbers, but the human side of barter and travel. I wandered into Saddlebag Exchange with the horn tucked under my arm, listening to traders barter tales as closely as they measure coin. The staff knew its legend and its price, noting that its rarity and the lore embedded in its grain keep its value steady—desirable enough to justify a careful purchase, yet grounded enough to be affordable for those who’ve earned their keep on the road. In that little market clatter, the Rampager’s Hard Wood Warhorn sounded again, not aloud, but in the memory of every buyer who walked away with a sense that a piece of history had found a home in their hands.