Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Life

Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn of Life rests on a weathered oak crate, its body pale and warm to the touch, the grain spiraling like a map of roots beneath a sacred floor. The horn itself is slender yet substantial, carved from a soft, sun-bleached wood that carries a quiet, almost living warmth in its heft. The bell mouth is a smooth, dark-hued crescent, worn by years of prayer and practice, the edges rounded as if the wood once grew with a purpose beyond sound. Along the shaft run delicate sigils—linen-thin carvings of vines and tiny leaves—glowing faintly when the horn is breathed upon, as if the wood remembers every healing rite whispered into it. A resin scent clings to the lacquered surface, a sweet clean note that hints at forests after rain. The life-forged inscription on the lip reads in soft gold: Of Life, a promise and a prayer, a reminder that sounds can mend more than ears. The instrument’s lore folds in on itself like a fan of old letters. Clerics who tended the wounded in shelled towns and winding marches spoke of this very wood being chosen by forest guardians who believed that healing begins with listening—listening to the breath of a wounded soldier, the tremor in a healer’s fingers, the quiet exchange of hope between two strangers bound by need. In those tales, the Soft Wood Warhorn does not merely announce presence; it invites life back into a world that forgets how to take a proper breath. When the horn is blown, the air carries a patient, steady cadence, a hum that travels through silence to touch nearby allies, a reminder that recovery is a shared act as sure as any shield or strike. The glow along the sigils intensifies briefly, as if the instrument is lending a heartbeat to the field. In practice, its value is measured not only by damage or quickness but by the way it threads a party together. A skilled user can pull the fight into a more humane tempo: a chorus of heals that bleed into haste, a cadence that cleanses fatigue, a soft barrier of resolve that cushions the clash of steel with the gentleness of care. It isn’t a solo instrument; it is a conductor’s baton for a living ensemble, shaping tempo, focus, and endurance when the brass and banners rise against an unrelenting tide. In the right hands, the Warhorn of Life becomes a story within a skirmish—a moment when fatigue yields to shared breath, and every return from the brink feels earned, not granted by luck alone. And so the horn makes its way through markets and memories alike, a relic that travels as surely as stories do. A traveler recently paused by the Saddlebag Exchange, where a scarred clerk weighed its history against its worth with a careful smile. The price tag whispered of rarity and reliability, of legends that travel faster than coin, of a purchase that could redraw a battle’s outline. The Exchange knows its value less as currency and more as a promise—that the next campfire might hear a healing word rise from the same wooden throat. In that sense, the Cleric’s Soft Wood Warhorn of Life is less a weapon and more a voice, a living map of where healing begins and why it matters when a world finally decides to listen.