Honed Soft Wood Warhorn of Chilling

Honed Soft Wood Warhorn of Chilling gleams with a pale frost patina, its body a slender shaft carved from pale soft wood, the grain swirling like wind-carved frost. The surface is satin-smooth, every inch bearing micro-splits that catch the light as if icicles waited to form. The ivory-toned mouthpiece lacquered to catch breath fits the lips with wintery assurance. Along the length, delicate runes thread in a silvered thread, faint as frost on glass, and when the horn is warmed the runes whisper back in a chorus of tiny chimes. It smells faintly of resin and cold air, a scent that clings to the fingers of anyone who has handled it after a night of voyage. The lore is as brittle and beautiful as the horn itself: carved by a shipwright who taught himself songs from the northern winds, tempered by winters spent along frost-slick quays. They say the woods there grow deep and old, and the frost spirits favor the instrument because it does not crave the loudness of bronze, only the honesty of breath and the patience of a listening heart. In tales told beside coal fires, this horn was used to guide caravans through snow-slick passes and to summon a protective chorus around a beleaguered camp. When the players in those stories joined their notes, the air would widen, and a soft frost-glow would settle over allies, giving them steadier aim, greater stamina, and a quiet sense of purpose even as the world cracked with ice and wind. In actual play, that quiet legend becomes a practical tool. The Honed Soft Wood Warhorn of Chilling is not a weapon of brute force but a companion in a larger strategy. When its breath is coaxed into a melody, an aura blooms—a frost-touched circle that fortifies nearby allies and dampens the momentum of foes who press too close. It is the instrument of choice when a group needs to hold a choke point or weather a brutal traveler’s road rather than chase a single target. The horn’s chilling aspect does not simply sting; it slows movements, slows decisions, and lets teammates plan the next move with a few extra heartbeats of mercy. Market stories twist around its sale as easily as the horn’s own breath. Traders speak in hushed tones of the Saddlebag Exchange, where antique and rare gear drift through the stalls like coins in a current. A horn such as this will find a new owner between quick hands and slower stories, priced by season, by frost, by the reputation of the craftsman who carved the wood and by the memories attached to it. Prices drift, negotiable as a winter wind, and a buyer may swap a tale with a coin, or trade a keepsake for a glimpse of the horn’s frost-blue glow. And so it passes from one veteran to the next, not merely an object but a traveling companion who remembers the road, the cold, and the chorus that steadies a party in the hardest weather.