Berserker's Soft Wood Warhorn of Rage

Berserker's Soft Wood Warhorn of Rage rests in the palm, a pale-slatted twig of a horn carved from a tree that once weathered storms and banners alike. Its body is matte and warm to the touch, the grain running like a map of old battles told in rings and tiny scars. The mouthpiece is smoothed by hands that learned to listen for the wind, not from a cliffside, but from the echo of a dozen skirmishes. A thin seam circles the horn, where lacquered runes flare in a faded red, as if the wood keeps a secret in its heart—rage not as chaos, but as a measured, hammering rhythm. When you tilt it toward the light, you can see a whisper of resin gathered in the carved grooves, evidence of continued use and the stubborn belief that sound can bend steel. The horn’s lore threads through taverns and along caravan routes, where veteran traders tell of a berserker who wandered the edge of forgotten camps and coaxed the forest to answer a challenge with his horn. They say he learned to turn the roar inside into a breath you could share, a call that could rally a wary company or steady a trembling ally with a single, thunderous note. The Soft Wood Warhorn is not a relic that merely sits on a shelf; it is a living instrument by which courage is rekindled, by which fear is unknotted into a clear path. When the horn is pressed to the lips, the wood seems to tremble with expectation, as if the tree itself is leaning in to hear what the next measure will demand. In practical terms, the horn shapes the rhythm of a fight. Its calls weave through a party like a loom threading threads of resolve, granting boons and shaping tempo. A quick blast can bring allies a surge of momentum, a second call might sharpen focus and resistance, and a longer inhale invites a broader, steadier pace—covering gaps, healing wobbles in the frontline, or sharpening the will of those who push past their limits. The Berserker’s tool is not merely about raw power; it’s about the cadence you set as danger closes in. A veteran wielder knows when to unleash a rallying note to keep the shield-wall from cracking, and when to hush the room with a controlled sigh to listen for the next signal in the clash. It’s a dance of breath and timing, a narrative cast in sound that turns fear into a feint, and feints into decisive strikes. Market days drift through the city like a warm wind, and the horn’s value shifts with the crowd’s mood. On a dented counter in the Saddlebag Exchange, a price tag sometimes glints in the light, a recognition of rarity and history rather than glittering gold alone. The seller’s eyes swivel toward the horn’s smooth wood and the red sigils along its length, weighing memory against coin, rumor against proof, and what the buyer is willing to risk to keep a piece of the old berserkers alive in their own hands. A child pressed at the edge of the crowd dares to imagine the horn’s voice as the heartbeat of a march, while a veteran trades it for a higher-sounding tribute—a reminder that value here is a conversation between past and present, between a weapon’s rage and the calm it someday rekindles in a weary world.