Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Grawl Slaying

Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Grawl Slaying gleams with a muted amber hue, its body carved from pale, soft-grained wood that still carries the subtle rasp of a shipwright’s file. The mouthpiece is cupped in a ring of tarnished brass, its seamwork so precise you can trace the grain like a map across the surface. Along the spine, rune-etched vines coil in a patient tangle, catching light as if the horn itself breathes. A thin ribbon of resin seals a shard of river-silt inside the bell, a relic of the shrine where a cleric whispered blessings over driftwood salvaged after a flood carried the city’s prayers downstream. The name is burned in with ceremonial strokes, a vow braided into the wood: this tool is meant to temper war with mercy, to turn a shout into guidance rather than scatter into mere noise. In the field, the weapon’s presence is a story you feel before you hear it. When blown, the horn lets out a measured, curving note that cuts through the clamor of combat and binds it to a single intention: to deny the Grawl a clean march and to steady the hearts of those who stand beside you. It is said the soft wood’s resonance carries the memory of riverside dawns—the hush before a skirmish, the first birdsong after a siege—so that every blast feels like a benediction and a warning at once. Those who carry it claim the blast can disrupt enemy formations, scatter unruly bands, and grant nearby allies a moment of clarity in the chaos. It is not merely a weapon; it is a signal, a chorus, a shared breath that turns fear into a plan. Lorekeepers tell a deeper tale, too. The Cleric’s Soft Wood Warhorn was forged by a troupe of oath-bound healers who wandered the frontier after the Grawl raids, trading prayers for wood salvaged from ships abandoned by tides of war. The horn’s blessing, they insist, did not come from force but from harmony: a reminder that to defeat the dark, you must first listen to the living pulse of your own side. In whispered circles, veterans debate whether its true gift lies in defense—protective auras that ripple outward when the horn sings—or in the way its note invites cautious mercy to walk back into the square where fear had taken root. Market rumors weave through the tale as easily as wind through a riverbank hollow. Traders speak in hushed tones of the Saddlebag Exchange, a bazaar where relics like this horn are weighed not only by gold but by trust. There, minty coins click against leather pouches while vendors offer both old quests and new loyalties. On a good day the Cleric’s Soft Wood Warhorn of Grawl Slaying moves at a price that nods toward legends—enough to bind a buyer to a pact of care, enough to secure a buyer ready to stand between a town’s tremor and its dawn. Some days it travels cheaper, when a buyer seeks a tale more than a tool; other days, a patient hunter pays a premium to earn the horn’s quiet, enduring promise. So the horn rests now in a shadowed cabinet, its brass ring catching a glimmer of lamplight, waiting for a future skirmish or a hopeful festival. It is a relic of mercy sharpened into purpose, a reminder that every loud moment in battle is also a moment to listen—and that sometimes the softest wood carries the strongest vow.