Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of the Geomancer

Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of the Geomancer rests on the desk like a small, patient relic, its body carved from pale, almost honeyed wood that catches light with a gentle gleam. The grain runs like a quiet creek, smooth to the touch, with a texture that invites the fingers to trace every sinew of its maker’s intention. The mouthpiece is darker, a burnished knot that has learned the breath of many priests and wanderers, while the rim is etched with sigils that catch a pale green glow whenever a quiet word of earth-based magic is spoken. The instrument feels alive in the hand—the wood warm with stories, the air around it carrying the faint scent of resin and damp forest, as if the horn had spent years listening to roots and stones before ever meeting a mouth. To hold it is to touch a lineage, a whisper of ritual bells and ground shifting beneath ceremonial feet. lore threads through its polished surface like a faint, living web. It is said to have been forged by a geomancer who walked the liminal border between forest and stone, a cleric who believed sound could coax earth to answer a prayer. When the horn is blown, the first note seems almost reluctant, as if it must coax the soil to listen, then gathers itself into a steady rhythm that unsettles the dust and reveals hidden veins of ore and root. The Geomancer’s touch is visible in the way the wood seems to drink in a tremor and return it with a steady, reassuring pulse. Some tales claim the horn once guided a village through quakes and drought alike, turning tremors into tendrils of protection for those who stood beneath its sheltered note. In quieter circles, people swear the sound makes stone breathe more slowly, and soil remember where it has slept for generations. In combat or ritual, the Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of the Geomancer is more than ornament. It amplifies the earth’s quiet assertions, letting a user rally allies with a steady, earthbound cadence, soften enemy resolve with a tremor of the ground, and weave a protective aura that blooms like moss along skin and shield. Its uses feel endlessly adaptable: a call to gather the faithful, a signal to bend soil’s energy toward healing, a way to mark a glade’s edge so comrades know where the field will tilt in their favor. In the hands of a practiced practitioner, the horn becomes a narrative device—one that turns terrain into ally, time into a resource, and fear into a shared resolve. I wandered the market lanes and found one such horn glinting on an old vendor’s table, its price pegged into a language of silver and gold that only seasoned tradesfolk understand. A note beside it said Saddlebag Exchange sometimes carries these, each listing a quiet invitation to trade stories as much as coin, a reminder that every artifact travels with baggage: memories, promises, and the faint scent of resin that clings to old wood and older magic. If you listen closely, the horn seems to murmur back that it exists because someone believed the earth could be a conductor, and that belief is a classification of power as old as roots themselves. And so the Cleric’s Soft Wood Warhorn of the Geomancer remains, a bridge between soil and song, a small instrument with a large history, waiting for the next footstep to awaken its patient, enduring note.