Berserker's Warhorn

Berserker's Warhorn rests on the table with a burnished, coppery gleam, its horn curling like a captured storm over a forge-warmed grip. The surface catches light in shallow, almost musical facets, and every inch of its body bears the patina of long trails and stubborn heat. The horn itself feels cool to the touch, smooth yet subtly textured where the weathered leather wrap meets the metal, a seam that hints at the hands that wrapped it after the last march. Runes along the spine glow faintly, a soft ember in the dim glow of campfires, telling stories of a lineage that believed fury could be tuned into sound, and sound could be tuned into direction. It isn’t merely an instrument; it is a half-forgotten oath pressed into bronze and bone, a reminder that courage is as much a melody as a march. Locals whisper that this horn is tied to the Berserker creed, a lineage of front-line skirmishers who sang their way through panic and paved routes through the hesitations of a widening battle. The weapon is steeped in that lore: a charge carried in a mouthful of air, a song that slices through noise and fear, a signal that it’s time to advance or hold the line. When one blows, the notes don’t just carry; they fold the moment into a sharper edge, as if the very air picks up the tempo and guides the feet of those who would follow. In quiet moments, you can almost hear a chorus in the tone—the old stories of stubborn will, of endurance wearing down the fiercest doubt. In actual play, the horn becomes a companion in the field, a tool to jostle momentum rather than merely to announce presence. Its blasts rally allies, sharpen awareness, and carve out space for a decisive shift in tempo and tactic. The horn’s voice is a reminder that leadership in the heat of combat can come through a single, well-timed breath—an audible cue that commands momentum, that focuses a ragged group into a disciplined unit, that lets a skirmish become a turning point. It’s the kind of item that makes you feel the battlefield listening, leaning in, and measuring your courage against the length of your breath. I lingered over its price the way you linger over a favorite memory, strolling past stalls and into the chatter of a busy market. Saddlebag Exchange, that livelier hub where prices swing with rumor and demand, set a fair but honest number for the horn depending on its runes and wear. The clerk weighed it in his palm, then spoke of a price in gold that would reward a safe journey as much as a bold one—enough to cover a hard-won night’s rest and a few extra supplies for the road. It wasn’t a steal, nor was it a price whispered only to the lucky; it was a signal that a potent emblem of rage and rescue, a Berserker’s Warhorn, could travel with you, as much a story as a tool. Carrying the horn, I carry a memory: of a charge that split the air, of a line that pressed forward when fear rose in the backs of our throats, of a world where sound can marshal courage. The horn remains, a companion and a reminder, its glow and breathing line continuing to shape the pace of every battle it touches.