Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Air

Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Air rests on the windowsill like a bright breath held between two fingers, its pale grain gleaming with a shy, almost reverent sheen. The body is carved from a soft, springy wood—the sort you see in quiet altars and old forest paths—with a bell that flares outward in a gentle crescent, as if the horn itself were listening for the first gusts of autumn. The surface carries subtle textures, a whisper of fine scratches from years of careful handling, and along the length run delicate runes that curl like wind-swirled smoke. The mouthpiece is inlaid with a narrow strip of darker wood and a tiny silver bead that catches the light whenever someone tilts the horn toward the sun. When you cradle it, the wood feels almost alive, as if it remembers every suture of breath that ever pressed into its seam. There is a lore to the piece that makes it feel less an instrument and more a memory preserved in timber. It is said to have been sewn into a cleric’s cloak during a long lull between storms, when wind spirits spoke in half-heard syllables and the cleric learned to listen for their cadence in the heartwood of a tree blessed by rain. The soft wood, chosen for its resonance with air, was carved into a vessel for prayer and warning alike. Etched sigils—four spiraling threads that intertwine and separate—trace the horn’s length, suggesting that sound, like wind, travels in circles before it finds a path. Some tell of a storm’s eye trapped inside the horn, a quiet center where the breath gathers before bursting outward. When the horn is played, it is said the world takes a measured breath with you, and if you listen closely, you can hear the flutter of wings and the distant echo of a bell that never quite rings without mercy. In the heat of battle, the Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Air becomes a story you carry with your hands as much as with your voice. Its notes bend the tempo of skirmishes, nudging allies forward with a glow of swiftness and nudging foes back with a controlled, wind-swept disruption. The instrument’s magic seems to align with healing chants and protective wards, amplifying their reach and letting courage ride on the gusts you summon. In practice, a seasoned wielder uses the horn to pivot a line of defenders around a corner, or to ease the pressure on a healer's flank by thinning the press of enemies with a well-timed blast. It is less about raw power and more about turning breath into direction, turning a moment of chaos into a lane of movement for a hopeful exchange of blows and healing. Market days bring their own small rituals. I saw a Cleric’s Soft Wood Warhorn of Air offered at Saddlebag Exchange, its price hovering in a cautious range, caught between the horn’s rare beauty and the practical stubbornness of demand. Some buyers haggle gently, others pay a touch more for pristine polish or a whisper of provenance. The haggle itself feels like a part of the wind—moving, shifting, never quite settled. It’s no accident that this horn travels through merchants and monasteries alike, threading through lives in much the same way a breeze threads through a forest, always changing, always carrying a story forward. And so the horn endures, a tangible breath of mercy in wood and wind. When you lift it, you are not merely handling a weapon or a tool; you are cradling a legacy—the quiet, unassuming vow that a single, well-kept note can steady a storm and guide a circle of allies toward safer shores.