Berserker's Soft Wood Warhorn of Chilling

Berserker's Soft Wood Warhorn of Chilling rests on a table as if waiting for a march, its pale grain catching lamplight like frost on birch. The mouthpiece curves in a smooth, bone-white arc, worn glossy from centuries of breath and command, while the body is sheathed in a lattice of copper ferrules that gleam with a snowflake motif. The wood itself feels whisper-soft to the touch, as if the tree lent it a patient, listening patience before the horn finally spoke. Along the length runes, thin and frost-blue, carved with care and then sealed with a thin glaze that catches light and shifts like ice under a noon sun. A tawny leather strap, nicked from travel, dangles at the base, and a tuft of dyed horsehair sways with the rhythm of footsteps and weather. It is the kind of artifact that invites a listener to lean in, as if the horn might divulge secrets to those who know how to listen for the right note. Lore circles the horn in whispers—the Berserker who carved the first lines here was a storm-tender as much as a fighter, someone who learned to temper the raging howl of battle with the cold discipline of wind and ice. They say the wood grew in a glade where winter never fully left, and the horn’s voice learned to carry a chill that could slow a charging line as surely as steel. When the leather is tightened and a breath is coaxed through its mouth, the weapon becomes less a shout of war and more a vow spoken aloud in the tongue of frost. To hear its tone is to hear a history of crossing thresholds—between fury and focus, between the roar of a crowd and the still, patient moment before a strike. In practice, the horn’s power feels like a living section of a larger council in the field. The user’s breath becomes a chorus that buffs nearby allies with speed and resolve, while the chilling air sours the feet of those who would threaten the cube of safety formed by the group. It’s not merely sound; it’s a transfer of momentum, a turning of fear into momentum, a way to ride the edge of chaos with a gloved hand. The notes weave through skirmishes, calling forth a fleeting courage, sharpening a glance, nudging the team toward a synchronized advance. And when the battle thins, a soft, prowling gust lingers, as if the horn itself exhales relief into the world before waking the next moment into motion. Market voices weave into the story as well. I watched a trader lift the horn with reverent fingers, trading glances with a client who asked for gauge and provenance, the price spoken low and careful. Saddlebag Exchange buzzed in the background, a network of rustling pages and whispered deals, where the value of such a rare piece shifts with the seasons and the demand of caravans traveling between outposts. A buyer might offer gold, perhaps a curated bundle of trade goods, or a direct swap for another facet of winter’s memory. The horn’s worth isn’t only measured in coins but in the promise it keeps: that a night-ride, a deliberate charge, a whispered vow can carry further when frost crowns the air and a Berserker’s tool answers the call. So the Berserker’s Soft Wood Warhorn of Chilling remains more than an artifact; it is a hinge in the world’s ongoing tale, a talisman that lets a squad move as one, a relic that breathes out cold courage whenever the drums of war beat too loud.