The Berserker's Hard Wood Warhorn sits on the desk like a relic pulled from a long fever dream: a solid slab of heartwood so dark it drinks the lamplight, its grain twisting in tight, almost breathing spirals that catch every glint and shadow. The mouthpiece is a carved, bone-like curve, worn smooth by hands that learned the weapon’s rhythm, while a strip of rawhide binds the grip to the body, its fibers still faintly resin-scented from a recent campfire. Along the length, runes—not sharp-edged letters but shallow, deliberate grooves—trace a story of blood and endurance, each glyph catching a spark when the horn is warmed by breath or by the glow of a sunset strike. It feels heavier in the hand than its size implies, as if the wood itself carries a memory—the echo of many charges, the low murmur of a camp’s last watch, the drumbeat of a war tune that never quite faded. Lore insists the horn’s heartwood came from a tree that stood through generations of skirmishes, a sentinel among the old-growth giants who watched over a passing tribe. Craftsmen whispered that the wood remembers the roar of the frontline and translates it into a voice that can rally the closest dozen or so hearts when the horn is blown. When you lift it to your lips, you can almost hear the old stories: how a berserker once used this exact design to push through the front ranks, to bend chaos toward a shared purpose, to turn a retreat into a counterpulse of courage. The myth isn’t merely a tale told around a fire; it’s a reminder that a weapon can be a vessel for mood, for momentum, for the fragile moment when fear loosens its grip and resolve takes hold. In the world’s daily grind, the warhorn serves as more than a blaring instrument. It is a tempo-setter, a signal flare in the melee where timing can tilt a fight: a rally that steadies a wavering line, a retreat turned into a counterattack, a morale boost that lets a healer keep pace with the rising drumbeat. Its calls slice through the clamor, weaving breath and vibration into a shared cadence that teammates feel in their fingertips and feet. When the horn’s blessing lands, you’ll notice a subtle shift in the air, as if the party’s will aligns with the horn’s hammered rhythm, turning scattered efforts into a coordinated surge. It’s not merely power; it’s communication made audible, a short, soaring thread that binds several hands and hearts toward a common goal. Market mornings add another layer to the horn’s story. A steady crowd threads through the Saddlebag Exchange, traders and dreamers weighing rarity against risk, glinting coins and whispered negotiations in equal measure. The Berserker’s Hard Wood Warhorn catches eyes—and prices—like a stubborn flame. A seller’s tag might hover in the gold range, with nimble haggling whittling the final figure down to a usable sum for a camp and a crew, while a patient buyer may watch for a dip after a slow weekend. In those stalls, the horn is more than metal and wood; it’s a narrative bundle—a totem of steadfast courage, a communal instrument, and a tangible reminder that some voices, once set in motion, carry farther than the hands that struck the first note.