Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Air

Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Air rests on a worn leather cushion, its body carved from pale softwood with satin finish that invites a fingertip to trace the grain. The mouthpiece is polished to a whisper, while a fine lattice of runes spirals along the horn, catching lamplight and giving off a faint, breathlike warmth. The imagery etched into the wood—an open palm cupping a rising gust, a feather curling in a breeze, an hourglass whose sand skims upward—speaks of an old order of windward clerics who kept caravans safe through sudden squalls. It feels lighter than it looks, as if the air itself has been pressed into timber and then released when spoken. When a keeper of this horn lifts it, the room seems to lean closer to listen. A single cautious strike releases a note that travels with the soft urgency of a bell, then swells into a portable gust that seems to braid with the listener’s breath. In the field, it’s said to steady nerves, sharpen focus, and turn a ragged line of march into a coordinated tide. Soldiers and healers alike speak of its ability to hush panic and coax a moment of clarity from noise; commanders swear that a well-timed wind-call can part smoke and push a retreating column back into line, as if the air itself remembered what courage once looked like. The story of the Cleric’s Soft Wood Warhorn of Air is not just about a tool but about memory. The soft wood’s pale color mirrors dawn on a road between caravans, where a cleric once whispered blessings as dust rose from a sun-warmed road. Those blessings became a language of gusts and whispers, passed down when supplies ran low and hope ran higher. It’s not merely a weapon or a comfort; it is a talisman that asks the bearer to listen—to the breath of strangers, the sighs of the wounded, the distant roar of a storm-bearing ocean—and to lift their own breath in return. I found it at Saddlebag Exchange, where spines of leather and glinting coins filled the dim aisles with their own kind of weather. The stall-keeper measured out value in careful glances and a quiet smile, offering two gold coins with the suggestion that history alone wouldn’t keep the horn fed. We traded a handful of trinkets drawn from safer travels, and the deal settled into a quiet, earned rhythm. As I tucked the horn into my pack, I felt its weight not as a burden but as a vow: to carry the wind forward, to lend it to those who still need to hear a map in the noise, to keep faith with the old clerics who believed air could guard as surely as steel. On a voyage, the horn becomes a soundscape among diverse crews, a reminder that strangers can become allies when the wind chooses to listen. In that moment, the Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Air stops being a relic and becomes a road.