Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn

Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn rests on the desk, its pale grain catching lamplight as if a sunbeam had been pressed into wood. The surface has the dull sheen of years traveled: a satin gloss from careful handling, knobs of resin where the wind once gnawed at the grove, and the mouthpiece worn smooth by patient, faithful use. The horn curves like a patient prayer whispered into a choir's hush, the end carved with a looping sigil that speaks of mercy and endurance. It is made from a soft wood—not the stately ebony or stubborn ironwood of battlefield trophies, but something more forgiving, more intimate, chosen by an order that believed gentleness could still break chaos. In its sheath it carries a quiet history: hunters of rain-fed groves who pressed their vows into the grain, clerics who tuned the wood to carry not war but warding. When blown, the Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn does not tear the air so much as invite it to bow. The tone slides out in a warm, resonant hum, then blooms into sharper notes that stitch together scattered allies. It calls for guardians to lift shields, healers to steady breaths, and spearmen to keep their line—an orchestra conducting itself in a storm. In moments of retreat or rally, a single blast can knit a dozen footfalls into a single, deliberate tread. The horn seems to remember every chant uttered in its maker’s chapel and every oath sworn beneath the oaks where the grove’s soft wood grew. Lorekeepers insist the horn’s grain runs with a memory: a thread of compassion that survives even the fiercest skirmish. Some say it was carved by a cleric who traded a life of sermon for a life of service in the field, who learned that mercy must be learned in the heat of battle, not in the quiet of the cloister. Others speak of the sigil etched into the mouthpiece as a seal of guardianship, ensuring that power bends toward protection rather than triumph. I watched a merchant bend closer to a weathered signboard, discussing a price with a client who wore travel-worn boots and a map’s furrow in their brow. Saddlebag Exchange, the sign announced in curling script, offered a price that reflected the horn’s rarity but also its reliability in battle-tested hands. It isn’t the flash of a new weapon, but a tool that survives the road and the rain because it was made to listen as much as to shout. When the trade closed, the buyer slid the horn into a satchel, the leather sighing as if relieved to carry its next chapter. If you can find one, the Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn isn’t merely a collectible; it’s a companion that tethers you to a lineage of healers, a reminder that even a world battered by strife still remembers mercy. In the din of the forge and the clang of armor, it glows with a soft insistence: protect first, speak later, and let the rest follow. To listen.