Berserker's Soft Wood Warhorn of Bloodlust

Berserker's Soft Wood Warhorn of Bloodlust rests in my palm, its surface a warm weave of grain and lacquer, the wood pale as dawn under a forge-fire. The horn throat is carved with runes that resemble flickering tongues of flame, and the mouthpiece bears the patina of march-tested iron. The horn's body curves like a bow drawn tight, a single seam running along its length where age and use have worn a whisper of scarlet along the grain—not damage, but stories. Its texture is smooth yet stubbornly assertive, as if the wood remembers every shout it has ever answered and is waiting to answer again. Light catches the joint in a way that makes the fibers glow, a soft warmth in the hand when the market wind bites the square at dusk. The horn wears a band of rubbed bronze that tightens its silhouette, a sign that it has survived more campaigns than most can name, and its name is etched in a script that seems to lean toward a low, dangerous smile. People who hold it feel a charge, not just from the horn's bark but from the idea that a warband will hear your call and follow. In the chaos of a skirmish, its Bloodlust inscription flares in the mind’s eye, a promise that the rallying cry will sharpen the teeth of fear and turn it to noise. The bellows of the pit-born crowd answer, and allies surge with renewed speed, while the user feels a surge of focus, as if the world narrows to the moment when the horn discharges its first tremor. It is a tool of timing as much as tempo—a bridge between heartbeat and blade, between plan and panic, letting a veteran defender or an eager new recruit convert a moment into momentum. The lore whispers that such a horn was plucked from a berserker who learned restraint through mercy’s edge, that bloodlust here is tempered by cunning, and that a soft wood saved from a tougher fate can still scream with the courage of its master. On the field, you carry it to remind others that battle’s rhythm is a conversation, and the horn is your punctuation. Its effects are not merely cosmetic; in practice they ripple through the party, sharpening the sense of danger, extending disruption, and repainting a chase into a chorus. The woods keep quiet around a horn that has known the bite of raiders; you learn to time your breaths, to strike with the rhythm the soft wood insists upon. In lore whispers that such a horn was plucked from a berserker who learned restraint through mercy’s edge, that bloodlust here is tempered by cunning, and that a soft wood saved from a tougher fate can still scream with the courage of its master. By the bazaar edges of the city, stacks of such horns wait on planks, and the talk is as much about trust as metal. Dealers speak softly of rarity, and buyers listen for the breath between the words, for a price that sings in the ledger when a rider returns from the front lines. At Saddlebag Exchange, traders trade tall tales along with their goods, and the Soft Wood Warhorn of Bloodlust is often weighed against the story it tells. A bid may rise on rumor of a march, or fall when a veteran refuses to let greed hollow a legend. Still, those who know its weight in battle know its value lies not only in the call it makes but in the memory it carries—the memory of trails run, banners raised, and a chorus that turns fear into a marching tune. Even as the crowd scatters, the horn rests again at the belt, ready for the next summons. Its price at Saddlebag Exchange is only a measure of a larger tale—one of courage, blood, and wood.