Rampager's Soft Wood Warhorn of Ice

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.