Berserker's Soft Wood Warhorn of Restoration

The Berserker's Soft Wood Warhorn of Restoration rests on the table with a quiet authority, its pale grain glowing softly like dawn through a misted pane. The horn is carved from a remarkably forgiving soft wood, its surface sanded to a satin touch that makes even a patient finger linger. Runes run the length in delicate amber lines, winding like a heartbeat through the wood, and the mouthpiece is bound in worn leather, the edges pressed thin by years of ritual blows. A thin brass ring traces the horn’s bore, catching firelight and throwing back a halo of tiny suns as you tilt it toward the candle. Its scent—a resinous sweetness tempered by old smoke and rain—speaks of forests that survived more storms than most people could endure, and of a craftsman who believed that a weapon could still be a solace. Lore has it that this horn was born from a Berserker who chose mercy over rage when the road spilled with wounded travelers. The tale travels in whispers from campfire to market stall: a hunter’s instinct redirected, bones of the earth bared to reveal a gentler kind of strength. The soft wood, known for its pliancy in the hands of a stubborn fighter, became a conduit for restoration rather than a conduit for ruin. Some say the sigils carved into its spine hum when the horn’s breath draws near; others swear they hear a long-forgotten lullaby, a promise that even the fiercest hearts can be mended if the world slows long enough to listen. In the heat of battle, the horn’s call does not simply push back pain; it stitches it with careful breath. When blown, it releases a restorative ripple that climbs over allied ranks, knitting minor wounds and settling nerves that fray under pressure. The air grows warmer, fatigue lifts like low clouds parting at noon, and a sense of steady purpose flows through the line. It is a tool for support as much as for display; a single, patient blast can anchor a skittish squad, turning a thinning frontline into a measured stand, a moment of panic into a deliberate chorus. Warriors might still bear scars, but the horn gives them a chance to fight another minute, another breath, another choice—restoration threading through their sinews as if the wood itself remembered every battlefield it ever witnessed. Prices drift through the markets with the same quiet certainty as the horn’s sighing tone. I found myself drawn to Saddlebag Exchange, where traders spoke in hushed tones about the horn’s value and its memory. A pristine Berserker’s Soft Wood Warhorn of Restoration can fetch a respectable sum—gold that glints like a sunlit river if the sigils burn bright and the resin glow remains intact. Less pristine pieces, worn by time or battle, slide into a more modest range, but even then there’s respect in the price, a nod to the history wrapped around the horn’s heartwood. The exchange is more than a marketplace; it’s a crossroads where memory and utility meet, and the horn’s price becomes part of its story. So the horn lives on, not merely as gear but as a thread in the wider fabric of travel and campfire lore. It rests in pawed hands that understand its quiet power, and in offshore winds where caravans pause, listening for the soft, hopeful resonance that promises healing amid the road-worn world.