Berserker's Warhorn

Berserker's Warhorn rests in my hand, a curved horn carved from a dark, almost resinous ivory, lacquered in a matte ebony that drinks the light rather than reflecting it. The mouthpiece is wrapped in stitched leather, cracked and worn from years of restless travel, and along the spine runes—thin, frost-grey, and barely legible—like a battlefield map pressed into bone. When I tilt it toward the campfire, the surface catches a fleeting glow, and each etched line seems to hum with a memory: a voice once shouting through storms, a commander’s order carried on the wind. It isn’t merely an instrument; it feels like a hinge between what happened and what can still be done. Some say the horn carries the echo of a berserker who rode the edge of a night-sky charge, a figure who turned fear into momentum and momentum into a legend that outlives bodies and banners alike. In the glow of evening, the warhorn’s purpose unfolds like a song offered to a chorus of comrades. When its notes break the air, they don’t simply startle the enemy; they braid the battlefield with sound and will. A sudden blast can rally weary guards, sharpen the swords of those who have already worn their courage thin, and push a skirmish line a few paces further toward the breach. The horn’s lore is woven into the world’s bloodstream: those who carry it are both beacon and magnifier, turning a handful of brave souls into a wave that can crest a wall. In quiet moments between charges, you hear the horn’s softer sighs—the long, legato notes that settle a camp’s nerves, the way a well-timed melody can coax a tired healer to hold a little longer, a frightened recruit to take another step. The real weight of the Berserker's Warhorn, though, lies in how it travels with you through the world. It’s carried not just by hopeful adventurers but by messengers of memory—those who know that a single blast can tilt a fight and a single memory can tilt a life toward meaning. It’s a weapon that speaks in irreplaceable sounds, turning practice and plan into a shared rhythm that others can hear even before they see the tug of your banner. In raids and open-field skirmishes, its most prized use is as a conductor’s baton: it summons Might, Fury, and Swiftness for the party, guiding movements like a captain’s hand on a flag, a prompt to push, hold, or retreat as the moment demands. Prices drift through the markets like winter leaves, and in the market tents near Divinity’s Reach I’ve overheard traders speak of such gems with a mix of reverence and pragmatism. Saddlebag Exchange, a known waypoint for wanderers carrying more stories than coins, hosts whispers of a Berserker's Warhorn transitioning from one seasoned grip to another. A fair price, the whispers say, sits somewhere in gold—a reminder that memory and power come with a cost, and that what you buy is not only a tool but a page of someone else’s saga. When I’ve traded there, the horn’s price tag felt less a number than an invitation: are you ready to shoulder the charge its previous keeper once did? So the Berserker's Warhorn remains more than metal and wood. It is a living hinge in a world where battles end but stories do not, a voice that travels with you as you walk the road between memory and tomorrow, calling forth courage and caution in equal measure.