Berserker's Soft Wood Warhorn of Agony

Berserker's Soft Wood Warhorn of Agony rests on a sun-warmed table, its pale timber catching the light like a blade of quiet dawn. The horn itself is slender and softly curved, grown from wood that seems to remember every storm it withstood. The grain runs in wavy, sinewy lines, as if the tree learned to sing through the wind and the rain, and the surface wears a satin sheen, lacquered by countless hands—carver, warrior, and warden alike—until it gleams with a patient, almost respectful luster. Along the rim run careful runes, etched with patient fingers, then brushed with brass dust that catches the eye and refuses to let go. The mouthpiece is a pale bone-white, tucked into a seam of worn leather that holds fast to a length of braided sinew; when you tilt it to the light, there is a faint amber glow from within, like a memory trapped in resin and wind. Lore, of course, lingers in the corners of such an object. They say the horn was grown from a single tree struck by a storm that should never have happened, a tree that learned the roar of the battlefield and learned to echo it back. The Berserker who claimed it swore the wood remembered every charge, every cry of “forward!” and every pause between the roars, as if the tree itself could judge a battle’s worthiness. The Agony suffix hints at a hidden pact: a voice that welcomes the brave into the fray but gnaws at the heart of a coward, a companion that amplifies courage while savoring the cost of every victory. In practice, the weapon is a storyteller in the hands of a seasoned combatant. When the horn travels from belt to palm, it becomes a conduit for a chorus that can swing the tempo of a fight. A single breath can ripple through the line, sending a surge of focus through allies and a tremor through foes. The call seems to pull the pack together, sharpening senses and loosening tongues, turning hesitant steps into a shared rhythm of assault. The soft wood, once quiet and unassuming, seems to glow a touch brighter as the room fills with a vibration that can be felt more than heard—an invitation to press on, an admonition to endure, a reminder that every war is a story told in echoes. Market whispers carry the item across caravan routes and auction floors, and the narrative of price threads its way into every shopfront and campfire debate. I heard the name slip through a few mouths, then out into the open air, where traders from Saddlebag Exchange talk softly about value and risk as if they were discussing weather. The listing, I’m told, hovered in the five-gold range, with room to haggle for a patient buyer who reads the market like a map. The right buyer might trade a handful of cherished belongings or a ledger full of favors for the horn, while the wary may wait for a season when the wood’s glow seems brightest and the cry of the Agony seems most true. So it sits, this warhorn of pale wood and storm-touched memory, ready to ride again with whoever dares to marshal a charge. It is more than a tool; it is a compact memoir of battles fought and the unspoken vow to endure, to lead, and to listen—to hear, above the clash, the soft whisper of the tree that never forgot how to roar.