Berserker's Soft Wood Warhorn

Berserker's Soft Wood Warhorn rests on the worn tabletop like a patient tale waiting to be told: a slender column of pale ash, the grain dense with the memory of trees that grew in frost and wind. The surface glows with a soft, satin sheen, as if the wood itself were keeping a quiet secret. The bore is clean and generous, the mouthpiece a darker, burnished hue, carved with the faintest bite marks of a craftsman who knew that precision forgives chaos. Along the seam, runes spiral in a tight, weathered script—old mercantile marks, perhaps, or a clan sigil that whispers of loyalty and shared blood. The horn’s end tapers to a careful point, not cruel, but ready to sing a word that can bend a battlefield to will. Touch it, and the scent of pine and rain swirls up from the wood, a tactile promise that this is no mere instrument but a vessel of memory. In its lore, the Berserker’s Soft Wood Warhorn is said to have belonged to a rider who learned courage from the forest itself. Some tell how the berserker who wielded it could hear the crackle of distant fires and the drumbeat of hooves as if the heart of the wild spoke through him. When the horn is blown, it does not merely sound; it summons a chorus of purpose. The first note rasps, raw and brimming with resolve; subsequent notes swell into a rallying cry that staggers fear from the field. It is said the horn’s voice tightens sinew and steadies breath; it quickens the tempo of a retreating heart and sharpens the strike of those who stand their ground. For a ranger watching a band of marauders, or a frontline battalion pressed at a gate, the horn becomes both signal and shield—an audible pledge that allies are seen, supported, and joined in the push forward. Its uses are as practical as they are romantic. In tight corridors of ruined walls, a quick blast can carve space and reset momentum; in open terrain, it can synchronize a unit’s charge, turning scattered feet into a unified line. The Soft Wood Warhorn’s signature is a tempered roar—never merely loud, but precise, a tool for controlling tempo as well as fear. Those who carry it learn to read the wind and the whispers of far-off banners, using the horn to stretch a moment into opportunity, to turn a stumble into a step forward. Market tales thread through its journey as well. A merchant might tell you its value in bright coins, but the road offers a different truth: the horn is worth what a caravan will pay for it when the road is long and the trade winds forget to blow. It often finds a buyer at Saddlebag Exchange, where traders haggle under canvas and the air smells of pitch and leather. One traveler speaks of bargaining there for a fair price—enough to purchase a new latch for a saddle and a warm meal for a night’s rest—while another notes that the horn’s legacy makes it more valuable than its weight in gold to the right collector, the right oath-bound buyer, the right keeper of old songs. So the Berserker’s Soft Wood Warhorn travels on, from hand to hand, from campfire to crowded plaza, a slender beacon of shared courage and whispered memory. And in the telling, the horn remains more than an object: it becomes a thread in the larger story of the wild that never truly leaves us, only waits for the next call to answer.