Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of the Hydromancer

Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of the Hydromancer rests on the table like a small, breathing relic, its body carved from driftwood that has seen many tides. The grain runs like pale rivers through the amber-tinged wood, soft enough to feel warm when cupped in the palm yet stubbornly resilient against the scratch of a fingernail. A mouthpiece wrapped in thin kelp threads gives a faint salt sting when you press your lips to it, and along the bell the sigil of a hydromancer is inlaid in silver, a curling wave that almost glimmers with moisture even in candlelight. The horn’s polishing oil has a resin-like bite to it, leaving a whisper of dampness on the skin and a scent that hints at rain battered pilings and hidden coves. It looks as if it were grown by shorelines rather than forged in workshop air, a gift from water itself to a faithful hand. Lore holds that a cleric who could coax healing from the sea learned to temper sound into salvation, and this soft-wood horn carries that tale in its grain and glow. In use, the horn feels like a conduit between breath and tide. When drawn to the lips, its notes rise in a measured pulse, not loud but intimate, as if calling an entire harbor to listen. The Hydromancer’s touch seems to ride each sound wave, turning melody into a gentle cascade of healing, into a shield as light as mist that blooms across allies, and into a current that drifts trouble away from the group. Players who carry it often speak of rhythm—not the rush of battle but the steady tempo that steadies a skirmish, allows a frontline to hold, and invites mages and spirits of water to answer in kind. The horn’s power is never overbearing; it sustains rather than shouts, smoothing rough pain and weaving a cooperative breath between healer and courageous, anxious comrades. Its lore-specific edge lies in its affinity for hydromantic currents, so it reads the room like a tide chart and adapts, offering healing resonance or protective glide as the battle demands. The horn’s presence ripples through the wider world, too, stitching a larger story of relics gathered from ruined temples and coastal outposts. Travelers speak of a lineage of water-ward relics, each a small lighthouse in a smoky bazaar, and the Cleric’s Soft Wood Warhorn sometimes becomes the thread that ties them together. That thread is most visible in the market’s quiet pulse, the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders trade tales along with trinkets. It’s common to see a tag swinging from its neck like a windchime—an amount measure of silver and a promise of barter—while a sailor-priest bargains in pearls and stories of storms past. The price is never fixed, and it never sits still; tides push and pull value as surely as they push and pull water over a shore. So the Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of the Hydromancer endures, not merely as a tool but as a living hinge between healing hand and listening sea. It moves with the wearer through sunlit harbors and rain-soaked coves, continuing to tell its tidebound story in every note and every breath.