Cleric's Hard Wood Warhorn

Cleric's Hard Wood Warhorn sits in your hand like a small oak heart, its surface a tapestry of tight grain and sun-warmed sheen. The wood, dark as midnight rain, is dense as a whispered vow, and the horn curves like a careful promise. Its bell is brass, etched with sigils that catch the light and scatter it into halos. The mouthpiece wears a patina of wear, worn smooth by centuries of use, and a line of inlays runs along the spine, catching candlelight. It's a weapon that hums with history, a relic that seems to carry the damp scent of sanctuaries and candle wax. Legends whisper that clerics who guarded mercy in the old temples pressed the first chords from its mouth to soothe fevered wards and rally pilgrims in marching storms. Some say the wood was salvaged from the tree that stood where the plague garden bloomed, cut with prayers and cured with ash-water. It carries the scent of hymnal walls and rain-soaked stone. To touch it is to hear the old wards binding themselves to your breath. In combat, the Cleric's Hard Wood Warhorn does not merely announce arrival; it braids healing with tempo. Its chants ripple through the party, granting a shared breath that steadies nerves and sharpens focus as a frontline advances. Rings of light bloom around nearby allies, subtle boons weaving into attack and retreat. Those who play guardianship know how such a tune can turn a siege from frenzy to order. Beyond the spear and shield, its value travels where caravans cross towns and rivers. In the market tendrils of the Saddlebag Exchange, a steady drumbeat of listings and trade chatter carries the trade between districts. Prices swing with the seasons of pilgrim festivals, and the condition of the sigils etched into its brass ring can tilt what buyers are willing to offer. Some traders whisper about inscriptions that glow when danger nears, inflating demand and driving up the tag in the right hands. Later I found it tucked under a market cart as the sun sank behind banners. A young healer, weary from patrols, lifted the horn as if it were a sacred child, drew a breath, and released a quiet arc of sound. The chorus steadied the crowd, and the fevered quieted into relieved sighs. In that moment the weapon felt less like a tool for killing and more like a companion in mercy, an oath pressed into living wood. In cities and outposts, the Cleric's Hard Wood Warhorn lives in stories: the questing party who earned it as a siege tribute, the trader who carried it across a continent, the scholar who saw its sigils mirror the temple's clock and his own conscience. It travels with people, turning exchanges into fragments of history. Even now, in daylight markets and candlelit streets, the item reminds travelers that healing is a communal act. On Saddlebag Exchange, its price fluctuates with moods and rumours, but its role remains the same: to bind a group, steady a trek, and lend a chorus to conflict.