Hearty Soft Wood Warhorn of Hobbling

The Hearty Soft Wood Warhorn of Hobbling lies on a mossy bench, its body a warm, amber-brown slab of something like cathedral grain. The surface is satin-smooth, yet each groove runs with the memory of rain; a gentle tremor travels through the horn when you cradle it, as if the wood itself were listening. The mouthpiece is carved in the shape of a looping vine, its tendrils wrapping around a tiny, worn emblem: a heart, a wheel, and a hobble-break buckle, a cross of lore and craft. When you tilt it toward the light, the sheath of rune-scribed runes along the sides glows faintly, not with fire but with patience, as if the instrument knows you expect hardship and mercy in equal measure. The horn’s edges are rounded by years of use, the sound port wearing a thin, almost velvet film that softens the first note into a warm, sustaining tone. All of this sits above a core of cured river wood, a heartwood that has softened with age yet remains stubbornly resilient, a paradox that seems to cradle a small legend within its grain. Its lore threads through festival fires and quiet, border-town vigil nights. Elders say it was carved by a woodworker who walked with a limp and spoke in a measured cadence, a craftsman whose hands blessed every breath of wind that passed through the workshop. They say the horn’s charm could slow the pace of trouble itself, bending the stream of momentum in those who hear it, a gentle hobble that buys time for a retreat, a rally, or a closing flank. In practice, the Hearty Soft Wood Warhorn of Hobbling is a true companion for those who travel light but carry a heavy sense of duty: a warhorn that grants healing warmth to allies when the notes fall true, and a tactical nudge to foes when the chorus swells and the tempo shifts. In combat, players deploy a chorus of phrases that ripple out into the party, weaving Might and Swiftness with a touch of control, a rare blend that makes the horn feel less like a weapon and more like a response to fear. At the bustling Saddlebag Exchange, the horn commands respectful attention. The price floats there as a question mark, traded across stalls like a myth that is finally becoming real. A seasoned broker might name a modest stake—three silver, a spare bottle, a tale of a march through rain—yet the real currency here is trust. You listen, you haggle, you remember the road. By the time you step away with the Hearty Soft Wood Warhorn of Hobbling tucked in your pack, the forest seems a touch nearer, the world a touch larger, and the note you learned to play serves as both shield and invitation, a reminder that memory, like wood, only grows stronger with time. Some nights, when the campfire sputters, a lone note from it curates patient faith in weary travelers, binding strangers into a chorus of improvised legends.