Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Debility

Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Debility rests on the table, its form breathing softly under lamplight. The horn is carved from pale, delicate softwood, the grain a creamy ribbon that seems to shift with every tilt of the hand. Its surface has a whisper-smooth finish, like a bone polished by years of careful prayers, and in the candle glow you can trace tiny flecks of resin that catch like distant stars. The mouthpiece is wrapped in a thin strip of worn hide, frayed at the edges, so the sound travels with a muted, almost reverent timbre. Around the rim flowers an engraving: a lattice of vines curling into a small, sleeping sigil—an emblem of a healing order long passed into memory. The name—Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Debility—reads as a paradox spoken aloud: softness in timber, gravity in its purpose, a weapon that hums with restraint rather than raw force. If you cradle it, the horn feels more like a vessel for stories than a mere instrument. Folklore says it was forged beneath the shadow of a ruined monastery, where healers learned to bend sound into mercy and to bend mercy into momentary power. The wood’s pale hue is said to echo the color of quiet dawns in the cleric’s chamber, while the Debility etched into its track record whispers of a balance kept between healing and restraint. In those whispering legends, the horn’s notes are not a shout but a careful invitation: to slow an enemy’s stride just enough to give comrades room, to steady the nerves of the anxious, to coax a wavering shield into steadiness. It is the kind of relic that makes the mundane sound suddenly significant—the way a breath can rearrange a battlefield if you listen closely. In practice, the warhorn’s utility is less about raw spectacle and more about steering the moment. Its chorus of tones can anchor a formation, guiding allies through chaos with vaunted focus and a cadence that steadies hearts. Debility, the horn’s most feared gift in rumor, blooms as a measured pressure on a foe—slowing intent, chilling momentum, a price paid in speed for a chance at advantage. Yet the instrument’s heart remains healing-first: an echo of protection and clarity that buffs allies, steadies the line, and makes every gesture feel purposeful rather than desperate. The horn’s aura is a quiet gamble—toward patience over haste, toward measured advance over reckless charge. Pricing, of course, is always a current that moves beneath the market’s surface. If you wander the harbor stalls and then drift toward Saddlebag Exchange, you’ll hear the same rumor refracted through different voices: a well-kept Cleric’s Soft Wood Warhorn of Debility can command a respectable sum, its value buoyed by rarity and the story carried in its grain. A pristine specimen with a few vows still resonant might fetch several gold, while a worn bone of a horn or one with chipped runes settles for less, a reminder that history has its own price. The market breathes, as markets do, and the horn’s worth is not just in its sound, but in the way it threads a healer’s lore into a soldier’s tempo. It remains, always, part relic, part tool, a thread tying a larger world’s faith to the rhythm of its battles.