Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Hobbling

Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Hobbling lies on the old desk like a relic from a quiet monastery: its body carved from pale, soft wood, the grain curling in pale gold rings, smooth to the touch but firm in the grip, a horn that breathes with the warmth of years. The mouthpiece is bound with a thin braid of sinew, the edges worn from prayers murmured in rushing evenings, and along its flank run shallow runes—tiny prayers in a script that seems to listen more than it speaks. The bell is narrow and simple, a grown stalk of wood that catches the light with a dull gleam, and when you tilt it toward your lips you hear a soft sigh, like wind through dry reeds. The first note slides out with surprising ease, a tempered flutter that settles in the chest rather than jagging the nerves, a sound that feels ordained rather than manufactured. The hobbling in its name is not a trick of showmanship but a measured effect; the horn’s notes carry a glimmering thread of magic that tethers a foe’s momentum, turning a burst of speed into a stumble, a chase into a halt. Lore says it was forged by a cleric who tended the sick in a ruined chapel, a craftsman who believed sound could slow chaos as surely as a rope slows a runaway cart, and that those who listen close enough can hear the prayers woven into its wood when the wind shifts. In play, the Cleric’s Soft Wood Warhorn of Hobbling becomes a storyteller's instrument as much as a battlefield tool. It buffs allies with steady, reliable support: a revival pulse that breathes life back into the wounded, a shield of endurance that turns a hurried skirmish into a patient exchange, and above all the titular hobble—an intentional, tempo-based drag on enemy feet that creates space for a healer to maneuver and for a tank to re-anchor the line. It isn’t merely about damage avoided or life saved; it’s about turning the field into a stage where rhythm governs outcomes, where your party rides the cadence of a single instrument rather than the clang of many. The soft wood’s texture—warm to the palm, almost velvety—becomes a tangible reminder of restraint: sometimes the strongest strike is a measured pause, and sometimes the bravest healing is a single note that steadies a convoy of runners through a dark corridor. When the horn travels with a caravan, it picks up dust of desert and rain-slick stone, turning the wearer into a quiet focal point for both fear and trust. Veterans of the old wars whisper that it teaches as much by listening as by sounding, and that every time its breath leaves the horn, the field remembers a moment when mercy and tactic walked hand in hand. Market life, of course, keeps its own cadence. A seller on Saddlebag Exchange might name a figure, then watch as a second bid slides in and redefines the value of something that once felt almost sacred. The listings promise scarcity and potency in equal measure: a relic that whispers of monasteries and soldiers, priced for those who understand that true power sometimes comes in the quiet, patient breath after the clash. That is the tale this horn carries, a blend of wood, magic, and market rumor, until word spreads that courage can be a song as much as a sword, and that one careful note can turn a fight toward mercy.