Hearty Soft Wood Warhorn

Hearty Soft Wood Warhorn sits on the shelf, its mouth carved from warm, pale wood and worn smooth by countless echoes of marching feet. The grain runs like rivers of honey, and a trace of resin glints where the horn’s throat was polished by a craftsman’s rag. A tiny spiral of brass bands encircles the base, catching light as if it holds a memory of sunlit forests; along the butt, a rune-like inlay—the mark of a guild that once bound volunteers to a distant campaign—fades to darkened patina with time. When you heft it, it feels alive, not heavy but eager, as if the wood itself remembers every laugh, every cry, every oath spoken within the circle of comrades. The lore says it was threaded through a harvest festival, carved from a sapling spared by a forest spirit in a village swallowed by weather and time, a sign that life could be won back through song. In the hands of a veteran, the Hearty Soft Wood Warhorn becomes more than a weapon; it becomes a chorus that binds a skirmish to a memory. In battle, its notes cut through steel and noise, not with brute force but with intent: a call to gather, a gentle swell that steadies shaky hands, a quick, bright cue that a healer is near. Whispering pitches ride the air, a sequence that whispers of fortitude, of renewed vigor, of breath kept even as the front line shifts. Soldiers tell stories of wards that bloom when the horn’s second tone rings, of quick steps that appear as if summoned by a friend behind the line. Traders speak of it in the markets less as a weapon and more as a companion, a reminder that war is also song and memory. In the busy lanes of Divinity’s Reach or the dusty stalls where cloth and trinkets mingle, a hunter named Lhea once traded a worn compass for one, its brass band catching every moment of sunlight as she strode from stall to stall, bargaining with a patient smile. I watched a vendor tap the horn’s mouth and draw a line with his finger, as if tracing a map, then mutter a price that hovered around twelve silver—an honest exchange for a thing that could turn a skirmish into a chorus. Saddlebag Exchange, he warned with a grin, would not take less than that, for the wood has memories, and memories cost care and time. So it sits now in a quiet corner of my camp, cradled in a cloth, a reminder that the world moves on but the song remains, a thread that weaves through the days of marchers, merchants, and dreamers, always ready to call the next ally to the field.