Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Accuracy

The Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Accuracy rests on the desk, its pale grain like sun-bleached bone, the body carved from a straight sapling chosen by temple carpenters. The surface is smooth as river stone, with fine ringlines that catch the lamp and glow faintly green where the lacquer has worn thin. At the mouth, the horn flares into a gentle curve, a whisper-pale horn that seems to hum with a patient, almost pious resonance. Small sigils are etched along the spine—an arrowhead, a wheel, a barley sheaf—each a quiet pledge that the sound will strike true. When you cradle it, you feel a tremor of history beneath your fingers, the memory of healers who steadied a roomful of frightened villagers with a single measured breath. Generations of clerics spoke of it as more than wood and brass, insisting the grove that fed it was tended by a deity who favors steady hands and honest aim. The Soft Wood came from trees spared by fire, etched with mercy and discipline. In the temple’s archive, scribes linked the horn to a rite that opened a healer voice to ride the wind, guiding novices to place their heals with precision. It is a conductor, not merely a weapon. On the field, the Warhorn of Accuracy does its best work when a team needs timing more than force. A rate of cheers and calls can sharpen a healer's gaze and give rangers a fraction longer to land each strike; in the right hands, it acts like a metronome for movement, nudging the party toward safer lines and cleaner catches. Its passive approvals are small—every breath it lends can turn a near-miss into a hit, every call a breadcrumb that draws a squad toward the right flank. It is not flashy, but it is dependable, a quiet ally that reminds you to aim true when the smoke thickens. Prices drift when stories circulate about a single horn changing a siege's tempo. I watched a merchant at Saddlebag Exchange spin the tale of a patient craftsman's tone, and the price rose, fell, and then settled around a careful sum in gold and silver. A buyer might pay a premium for a filament-wrapped tongue that never wobbles, while a settler with a lighter purse could still walk away with something nearly as honest, if a little less pristine. The market, after all, lives on whispers and the weight of lore; the horn's worth isn’t just metal and wood, but the shared memory of battles it helped direct. Beyond the bazaar, the cleric who once carried it into the city’s square now ferries hope from one war-torn lane to the next, tracing the path of a better morning. The Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Accuracy remains in hands that believe timing can tilt the world, that accuracy is mercy. As lamplight softens the grain and sigils glow, the horn seems to listen, waiting for the next shout that will turn risk into certainty. Its echo lingers long after.