Honed Soft Wood Warhorn of Peril rests on the vendor's ledger with a dull gleam. The horn is carved from pale soft wood, the grain running like a quiet river along its length. The surface is satin-smooth from years of handling, though a few micro-splits appear near the bell. The mouthpiece is polished bone, mated to copper rivets that hold a band of runes—circles, spirals, and teeth-like marks that glow amber in the cold night. At the horn's end, the bell curls inward, promising sound more than volume. Legends tie it to peril-scarred caravan guards who kept watch on passes; the horn summoned the line of companions when night grew thick with wolves. Some say the Peril in its name came from a vow spoken by a captain who blew the horn as a last defense. Among the bustling market, the horn is not just a pretty object—it's a tool. In a pinch, it becomes a rallying note, drawing allies into formation; in the frenzy of a dungeon run, its deeper tones carve focus, letting the group time its strikes with the horn's pulse. Its air sensitivity makes it a tremor-sensor, listening for peril and answering with courage. People trade it for a price that reflects its history and utility; Saddlebag Exchange—a caravan-styled stall—often handles its sale. The horn fetches around two gold, sometimes with a silver tip for the broker. A wary buyer might haggle, offering route maps or night-scarred cloaks before the trade is sealed and the horn hums with potential on the ledger. Owners claim the horn's crackling timbre can bend the battlefield's tempo—the way a captain can shift a fight with a single breath; the horn is used as a central anchor for a group's plan: a call to charge, a warning to retreat, a whispered promise of resilience when the enemies press in. The soft wood makes it forgiving in long campaigns; it won't shatter if dropped; it will survive the occasional storm or caravan stumble. And so, in the long arc of its life, the Honed Soft Wood Warhorn of Peril feels less like a weapon and more like a companion—something you trade, yes, but something you also lend to a story bigger than yourself. Sometimes its tone hovers at the edge of a breath, waiting for a chorus to answer. Its note travels ahead of the traveler, slipping into campfire talk, until someone else raises it again and the legend grows. The horn's future remains unwritten; many buyers hope to hear that one clear note that breaks the morning hush and calls a band to stand together. Owners say the wood absorbs a fighter's pleas and holds them until spoken aloud again. In the marketplace, every scratch on the horn tells a road-worn tale, and every buyer adds a new line to its legend. When it finally leaves a hand, its echo travels in a quiet breath through the valley, reminding witnesses that peril can be faced together. Its legend endures, inked in sound.