Strong Soft Wood Warhorn of the Geomancer rests on the desk, a curved baton carved from pale soft wood, its grain winding in wind-worn rings that catch the lamplight like a sleeping river. The mouthpiece, a darker horn pressed to the stave, has a faint bite to its edge from years of practice. Along its length, shallow glyphs—rivers, roots, and tiny hills—have been burnished with patient hands, the runes recalling a lineage that binds soil to spirit. The texture invites touch: smooth where the resin has worn, grainy in the thinnest channels, and warm to the palm as if the forest itself were lending its pulse. A whisper of sap and cedar lingers in the air, a scent that seems to carry the memory of rain on leaf litter. When you tilt it toward the light, specks of mineral fleck in the wood glimmer like gravel beneath a stream, as if the earth itself had pressed through the wood and left a quiet, stubborn trace. In the old scrolls of the geomancers, this horn was more than an instrument; it was a pact between sound and soil. It is said that the blow of the horn could wake tremors that answered the ring of a true voice, coax stones to shift, and call forth earth-bound kin—stone and root and soil-sentinel—who would stand as a living shield for those who trusted the land. The inscriptions, a map of watershed and hillside, speak of a lineage that learned to listen to the ground and to bend its will without cracking spirit. Legends tell of a geomancer who carried this horn into caves where stalactites breathed and echo lived, guiding a caravan of workers to safety by turning the quake into a measured tempo rather than a ruinous chorus. In actual play, the Strong Soft Wood Warhorn of the Geomancer feels like a portable chapter from that ancient tale. It appeals to those who crave tempo and tact: a conduit for crowd-control that leans on terrain as a partner, a beacon that reminds allies to hold the line while the world beneath shifts its footing. The horn’s tones ripple through the ranks, not with brute force but with a careful cadence that supports survivability and staggered momentum. Blown with intention, it can rally a battered party, coax a wounded member to endure a moment longer, or coax the earth to slow a charging threat. Its power is a nuanced, resonant breath—loud enough to cut through fear, soft enough to feel like the ground answering a whispered command. Market chatter often threads its way into such conversations, and the Saddlebag Exchange becomes a corridor of rumor and possibility. A trader might pause beneath a canvas canopy to trade tales of the horn’s provenance, its history threaded through barter and memory. The listing moves like a tide—sometimes a modest silver, sometimes a badge of gold, depending on who tells the story and who clutches the lore of the land. A patient buyer, listening to the market’s tempo and the horn’s heartbeat, can find a bargain, a chance to cradle the instrument and let it sing for a new keeper who will walk the hills and listen for the secrets buried in stone.