Rampager's Soft Wood Warhorn of Water sits on the table like a tide-washed relic, its hollow body carved from grain-swollen soft wood that catches the light with patience. The bore is wrapped in lacquer that has chipped in places, revealing rings that look almost like growth rings in a storm-tinned trunk, and a faint blue sheen glides along the edge as if the horn itself had learned to breathe. Along the shoulder of the instrument, runes are burned in with a careful hand: a looping sigil of water that curls around a carved fish, a reminder of rivers that never truly rest. The mouthpiece is smooth, worn by countless campaigns, yet it still sings when you press your lips, a low, warm note that seems to carry rain rather than sound. The wood's scent is clean and aquatic, a hint of salt and cedar, an odor that makes you think of fresh wells and spring-fed cisterns rather than smoky forges. When you tilt it toward the light, you notice flecks of resin trapped in grain like tiny bubbles preserved under glass, and the whole weapon seems to pulse faintly, as if it were listening for a distant downpour. Its lore is not simply about a craftsman's skill; it speaks to the way warriors hear the world. Rampager's is a set known for endurance, the sort of furious, sustained power that wears armor down without shouting. The Soft Wood Warhorn of Water carries that sensibility into sound. Swirl a breath across its mouthpiece, and the horn gives back a misting echo that hints at rain on shield and skin, a reminder that battles are not only fought with steel but with currents of patience, recovery, and flow. In practical terms, that echo becomes a quiet ally on the battlefield, shaping tempo and mood: it grants allies a steadier rhythm, nudges healers toward calmer casts, and makes the team feel as if the air itself were massed into a defense. Players prize it for more than its beauty. It fits into builds that lean into support and sustain, weaving water magic into the core of a line of defense. It can turn a skirmish on a cliffside into a managed flow, where each burst of song slows fear and steadies hands, and where the horn’s notes are almost tactile, guiding movement as surely as a map’s dotted line. On a market morning you might cross Saddlebag Exchange and hear whispers of demand, the price hovering in the gold range, shifting with demand and the season’s scarcity. A buyer and a seller will meet, trading stories as much as coin, trading rumor as much as rosin-slicked resin. The dealer smiles, sliding the horn across the counter, and in that exchange you glimpse a fragment of a larger world—the one where an instrument born of river rain can quiet a charge, mend a ruined morale, and, for a moment, remind everyone that even in war, water remembers how to return to shore. Home again.