Carrion Hard Wood Warhorn

Carrion Hard Wood Warhorn rests on the table like a relic that has learned to speak in its own breath. Its surface is the color of storm-darkened timber, a single piece of heartwood worked into a cylindrical spine that widens at the mouth with a careful, bone-like notch. The grain runs like wind-raked rivers, and every line seems to hint at a tale better told aloud than kept in silence. Along the length, sigils are carved in a patient, almost mournful script, then lacquered with a resin that keeps moisture out and memories in. Around the mouthpiece, a ring of pale bone teeth forms a jagged edge, as if the horn itself had been gnawed by time and by those who listen too closely. The scent of resin, oil, and rain clings to it, a reminder that this weapon was born not in the heat of battle but in the quiet, patient craft of a caravan smith who understood the value of sound as a kind of ritual. In the world it inhabits, the horn is less a mere instrument of war and more a conduit for history. When drawn, the Carrion Hard Wood Warhorn gives forth a rasping note that skews the air, a sound that feels like a door left ajar between the living and what fights in the margins. The first blast steadies trembling shoulders, sharpens focus, and lends a brittle courage to those who hear it in the churn of a skirmish. The second call carries an eerie elegance, a chorus of pale echoes that swirls around the battleground and unsettles the faint of heart. Practitioners who wield it learn to weave its tones with their own lines of magic or discipline—necromancers adding a whisper of dread, guardians borrowing a moment of eerie resolve, engineers keeping tempo with the heartbeat of a field. The horn’s lore speaks of caravans that traveled through drizzling plague-ridden nights, where the notes served to calm the unquiet dead and to remind the living that every life leaves an echo in the wood. Its uses extend beyond the moment of confrontation. In ceremony, the horn marks a pact between the living and the rest of the world—the dead are not forgotten when its tones ride the air, and the living are steadied by memory’s pull. In the field, it becomes a storyteller’s instrument as much as a weapon, calling forth spectral aids, guiding retreat, or rallying a dwindling group with the old courage that only a true battle-hardened instrument can resurrect. Market stories thread through its narrative as well. In a dim corner of Saddlebag Exchange, a weathered stall glints with a promise of uncommon knowledge. The merchant’s fingers hover over the price as if the number itself might bite, then slides toward a figure that speaks of value measured in trust, years, and the right to be heard. The horn is described as a rare find, one that has traveled with caravans and kept company with rain-slick paths and ruin-painted walls. A fair price—often a handful of gold, perhaps a touch more if the lacquer is pristine—circulates in the crowd, and haggling follows like the lament of a distant drum. Yet what remains after the exchange is done is the sense that the Carrion Hard Wood Warhorn will outlive many voices. It does not merely announce presence; it binds stories to the air, turning a simple encounter into a continuing legend. Those who carry it become, in a small sense, custodians of memory, one note at a time.