Honed Soft Wood Warhorn of Air sits on the workshop table, its pale grain traced with delicate swirls like wind-touched sap. The horn's surface glows under torchlight, lacquered to a soft, almost satin finish that catches a traveler’s shadow and holds it. The head is carved from a single piece of soft wood, warm to the touch, with tiny fissures like old map lines. When you tilt it, the runes etched along the bore shimmer faintly, runes that speak of air and listening. The mouth is worn smooth from countless breaths, polished by use, not by polish. A brass band encircles the base, catching the ember glow as if it carries a small sun within the wood. The horn carries a legend, whispered by woodwrights and caravan singers: that the wood remembers the wind more clearly than any other material, and that to blow it is to borrow a gust from the world. In battle or on the road, its significance unfolds like a tide turning. The horn does not merely emit sound; it channels weather into will. A breath can rally nearby allies, granting a moment of swiftness and calm before a charge. The note cuts through smoke and dust, guiding scouts and spear-wearers to align without shouting. For those who follow the Air path, the horn is a trusted companion, a conduit for wind’s quick, unpredictable nature. It is said to have passed between wind-singers who turned storms into stories, and each owner adds a breath to the horn’s memory. In practice, its use rewards timing and trust: players learn to listen for the right moment when air grows thin enough to carry a chorus of advantage. On a crowded day at the port market, a stall keeper unfurls a map of relics. A whispered rumor threads through the crowd: a few recent listings on Saddlebag Exchange show the horn in steady demand, traded between collectors and builders who prize nostalgia and utility. The price skims along the gold bar, sometimes dipping into silver when a blemish shows its age; other times, a pristine version with a flawless bore fetches more, as if the wood itself sings louder. I watch as a buyer negotiates with a careful, steady voice, tossing in a rare wind-chime as part of the trade. In this world, value is not only coins but stories—how the horn steers a caravan through a rainstorm, how it helps a captain call a crew to trim sails, how a lone wanderer finds a path home when the air grows tight. By night, the horn ends up in a satchel, tucked beside a map and a lucky bead, a reminder that even tools carry memory. Its craft invites patience, its use invites courage, and its lore invites you to listen for the breath between moments. The Honed Soft Wood Warhorn of Air is not merely equipment; it is a hinge where travel, weather, and will meet, a small instrument that makes the ordinary feel like a doorway to the sky.