Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Accuracy

Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Accuracy sits on a weathered desk in the lantern glow, its body a pale, honey-colored soft wood with fine grain that whispers under the touch. The horn's mouthpiece gleams brass, lacquered with a thin film of oil that trails faintly when you tilt it. Carved sigils wind along the length, delicate as a trellis, and a small amber inset glows softly at the throat—an eye that seems to watch the room. The finish is smooth, almost velvet to the fingertip, yet the wood bears the memory of rain and time, a testament to a craftsman who carved not just wood but intention. The lore says this horn was hewn from a tree that sheltered clerics during a siege, its rings counting years of prayer and rumor, its sap a resin that hardened into living memory. When the crest of the order named it, they buried prayers into its grain, so that every breath sounded like a vow. In the world, a horn of such material and purpose is more than a cosmetic flourish; it is a voice that steadies a march. When the party threads through a narrow pass, a quick blow of the Cleric's WarHorn of Accuracy sends out a ripple of tuned energy that sharpens the aim of those who fight alongside you. It doesn’t shout so much as orchestrate, coaxing allies to read the map of danger with greater clarity. In practical terms, it grants Precision—so your archers catch wind of weak points earlier, your healers time incoming damage with tighter windows, and your support booms ring with a sharper cadence. It is the sort of tool that makes a cleric feel less like a lone anchor and more like the conductor of a crowded symphony, each scrubbed note guiding the group toward a coordinated strike. The horn’s true magic, though, lies in its intimacy with the battlefield. Its notes travel like a thread through fog and dust, stitching attention to the most critical moments. A well-timed call can flip the tempo: enemies stiffen as your line finds its mark, or a teammate’s strike lands with an almost preordained certainty. In quiet moments, the same horn hushes fear, reminding a weary caravan guard that certainty exists, even if only in a single breath. I heard of it again at Saddlebag Exchange, where stories drift as easily as coins. A trader, eyes bright behind a weathered scarf, offered a price that felt equal parts keen and respectful—enough to tempt a desperate collector, not so much that a careful buyer would regret it. They spoke of this horn as if it were a promise as much as a tool, a keepsake with a pulse, a relic meant for those who bargain with patience and honor. And so it remains, a link in a longer chain of faith and steel, threaded through the workaday world of repairs, routes, and rescues. A blade may carve, but a horn can guide. Its story lingers, urging courage forward.