Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn

Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn sits on the trader’s barrel like a patient sunrise placed in the palm of a storyteller. Its body is a slender curve of pale, honeyed wood, the grain running smooth as a whisper and catching the light with a subtle, living sheen. The mouthpiece is a darker, almost cedar-like crescent, rubbed to a satin polish that gives it the breath of an old sermon when you bring it close. Carved into the length are narrow runes and tiny, leaf-shaped tracings—not harsh engravings, but soft invitations—as if the horn once carried the prayers of a quiet monastery and now carries them forward into street-lit evenings and crowded plazas. When you tilt it, you can feel the resinous scent of the wood and the wax from countless votives clinging to the surface, a reminder of hands that pressed it to lips and eyes long enough to make a vow. Legends say this warhorn was wrought by a guild of clerics who tended to the wounded along caravans and river routes. They spoke softly of healing not as a single rite but as a chorus—voices that rose and folded, never shouting beyond what was needed to steady a tremoring heart. The Cleric’s Soft Wood Warhorn bears that memory in its grain: a quiet vessel that prefers measured calls to loud proclamations. Some wearers claim it carries a small blessing with it, a warmth that settles into the palm after a long night of mending tents and retying splinted bones. In markets and memory, it’s said to summon the will to endure, the courage to stand again when fear has you by the sleeve. In actual use, it becomes more than ornament. It is a conduit for the kind of support that binds a group together when the map is uncertain and the next skirmish might be the one that ends the worst suffering. Blowing into it releases a cadence of shouts that proffer healing, bolster defenses, and sharpen resolve—boons that ripple through the ranks like the gentle lift of a wing over a sleeping bird. For a field medic, an escort, or a protector in the front lines, the Cleric’s Soft Wood Warhorn isn’t just a tool; it’s a sign that someone has prepared to carry the line forward, to keep a wounded ally from slipping, and to remind a whole squad that they are not alone in the churn of combat. The horn’s value isn’t only in what it does under fire but in how its presence changes the rhythm of a voyage. Caravans, camps, and crowded outposts become places where traders whisper about price and provenance, where the odd rumor of a cleric’s blessing travels faster than a horse can trot. It’s in those whispers that the Saddlebag Exchange becomes more than a stall: a living record of supply and desire, where a buyer eyes the warm, honeyed wood and a seller nods at the memory of the monks who forged its destiny. Prices drift with the market’s breath—sometimes a modest sum for a trusted, steady tool; other times a richer note for a horn steeped in story and kept in a hand that knows how to listen before speaking. In every tale, the Cleric’s Soft Wood Warhorn remains a reminder that a single, well-tuned breath can turn a ragged line into a march.