Rampager's Soft Wood Warhorn of Ice

Rampager's Soft Wood Warhorn of Ice rests on the vendor's cloth, its curved horn carved from pale soft wood, grain braided by frost-blue lacquer that catches candlelight and throws a dozen tiny stars along the rim. The texture is a paradox: warm to the touch, matte to the eye, as if heat and winter fought for space in the same vessel. Rune-carved sigils glow faintly when the air turns crisp, and a crackle of frost seems to creep through the lacquer whenever the horn's owner speaks its name. Lore murmurs that the horn was hewn by a Rampager who rode the edge of a glacier, trading heat for memory; it contains a winter’s echo, bottled in softened timber, meant to be blown clear in moments when courage is fading. In the field, the warhorn is more than ornament. Its players say the horn calls forth a chorus of ice-tinged resonance that can lift a tired party from the edge of collapse. In skilled hands it becomes a compass and a heartbeat: a rallying cry that shakes off fear, a whistle of wind that scouts ahead, and a frost-laden burst that slows pursuers and makes room for a counterstrike. The warmth of the wood lends resilience, letting a voice slip through panic alike. It isn’t a weapon for raw power, but a tool for timing, for weaving protection into a fight. Used at the right moment, the horn turns a skirmish into a story a campfire will retell—the way ice, wood, and breath fuse into a decisive chord. I watch a party cross a wind-chilled pass, the horn at the hunter’s side, its notes rising like pale breath. When a foe lunges, the horn answers with a glistening note that spawns a moment of stillness, then a flurry of icy sparks that freeze the edge of the attack and slow pursuit long enough for a mate to press the counter. The horn’s warmth is a paradox that lends it endurance, letting a voice ride through fear and fury alike. It isn’t a weapon for brute force, but a catalyst for timing and trust, a memory made audible in frost. Market-day chatter spills into the back alleys, and Saddlebag Exchange becomes a chorus of bargaining. A buyer hesitates, weighing the horn’s memories against its price, the stall-keeper counting coins while a child calls for warmth. Demand for frost-born gear has grown with the early snows, the vendor admits, and the price shivers like a candle flame—hovering in gold, silver, and copper. In the end, they strike a fair price, and the horn moves from memory into hand, ready to be blown again when the world needs a winter’s story told aloud. Some evenings, if you listen close, you can hear the horn's ice-songs in the wind beyond the market, carried by travelers who learned to read winter in its tones. It remains a whispered legend in the hills, a reminder that even a tool can carry a season within its own breath.