Rampager's Soft Wood Warhorn of Ice sits on the table, its pale grain glimmering with frost as if the wood itself remembered winter. The horn is carved from a forgiving soft wood, its surface worn smooth by hands that have met many campaigns, and the mouthpiece curls in a quiet, weathered arc that feels almost organic to the palm. Along its shoulder runes glow faintly in a cold blue, catching candlelight and releasing a thin scent of pine resin whenever someone leans in close. The tip bears a small shard of ice-colored glaze, not merely decorative but a memory pressed into the wood by some old winter rite, a pledge that the horn would carry frost wherever it traveled. When you lift it, the frost-laced texture pricks the skin, and the weight settles like a pact: this is a tool meant to be lived with, not merely owned. Locals tell of a rampager who roamed the borderlands between glade and cliff, a hunter who learned to temper rage with ritual and respect the cold as a teacher. He carved this horn from a tree that grew only in sheltered, snow-draped groves, coaxing out its voice with breath and ash and faith. The ice rune at the bell is said to bind a memory of siege and retreat, a ghost-story etched into living wood, so that every blast carries not just a sound but a fragment of winter’s history. The result is a weapon that feels less like metal and more like a weather shift—a thing that changes the weather in a small room, and perhaps, in a larger map, the tempo of a skirmish. In the field, its significance is not merely in decibels but in what those decibels do to the rhythm of a fight. When the horn moans, a chorus of frost travels outward, catching enemies in a cooled breath that slows their step and nudges their focus toward the edges of their defenses. For a party, the blast can sharpen minds and steady hands, bestowing moments of heightened resolve or bolstering allies with a surge of vigor, while the ice-edge memory at the tip quietly nudges the battlefield toward a telltale arc of advantage. It is the kind of relic that turns a quiet camp into a story, a push into a legend, because it orders chaos with a careful, chilly sentence—the sort of sentence that wins battles not by force alone, but by turning fear into a quiet, resolute chorus. The market at the far edge of the harbor moves at its own patient pace, and the horn’s rarity has threads braided into conversations about worth. A trader whispers of Saddlebag Exchange, a ledger-global feed where listings drift like ships in a cold harbor, and buyers compare prices as if they were trails through a forest. A quick glance on the screen, a nod from the keeper, and the horn’s price peels open in the mind: a sum that makes sense for a piece with winter’s memory stitched into its grain. By dusk, the decision teeters—to let the world keep its whispers, or to press your own palm against the wood and write a little more of the story yourself.