Strong Soft Wood Warhorn of Hobbling

Strong Soft Wood Warhorn of Hobbling rests in my gloved hands, its body a warm, honeyed curve of cedar-pine grain that seems to glow even in shade. The mouthpiece is a smooth, river-polished horn carved out of a single piece, the edges worn soft from years of lips and gusts of wind, as if the instrument learned to listen by listening. Runes are inlaid along the spine in a dull brass that catches the light like a fish’s scales, and a strip of leather, cracked with travel, wraps the neck, a reminder that this horn never stood still long enough to forget the road. The wood bears the scent of resin and rain, a faint tang of new growth that clings to knuckles and fingertips. Its surface bears minor scars—acorn dents, a crease where a cart wheel brushed by, a trace of white sap that hardened over time—each mark a small story whispered back to the finder. There is a lore to this artifact, not written in grand prose but etched in the way it travels from hand to hand. They say the Strong Soft Wood Warhorn was forged by a woodenwright who served a circle of wardens who walked alongside caravans through fog-drowned passes. Hobbling, the elders called the ritual that followed a blast of its notes—an ancient technique that slowed the pace of pursuing riders and creeping beasts, buying a moment for the weary or for a careful retreat. When the horn rings, the world seems to lean back, the air tightening as if a thread has been caught and tugged; enemies falter in a stumble, allies feel a sudden steadiness in their step, and the rhythm of the march shifts in a way that feels almost choreographed by the forest itself. It is less a weapon of brute force and more a conductor’s baton, guiding a battlefield’s tempo. In the field, its uses thread through a larger story of survival and trade. A traveler’s tale might begin with the horn’s call and end with a caravan’s safe corner, the animals calmed, the scouts reoriented, the lead guard’s shout becoming a chorus of renewed resolve. Its vibrations are rumored to awaken a hunter’s caution and to sharpen the reflexes of those who listen. When a party gathers, the horn can weave a brief shelter of vigor around allies, delay a charge with a measured, hobbling note, or set up a doorway for a retreat through tangled brush. The interplay between this instrument and a team’s tactics feels almost natural, as if the horn itself reminds people of a better pace—one that respects the land and those who traverse it. The price tag I spotted at Saddlebag Exchange clung to a weathered string, a small tag fluttering in the lamplight: roughly four silver, a modest sum for a careful collector and a grand gesture for a trader who knows a story when they hear one. The stall keeper spoke in measured breaths about condition and provenance, the way merchants do, but the name Saddlebag Exchange carried a hint of flirtatious rumor—everywhere and nowhere at once, a place where rare voices and rare tools drift with the dust of a thousand markets. I tucked the horn into its leather wrap, feeling the weight of its history settle into the grip of my own hands, and stepped back into the street’s chorus, where the wind carried a faint note of wood, rain, and road.