Berserker's Warhorn

Berserker's Warhorn gleams with a tempered black horn, its surface hammered into a fine grain that catches the light like metal under a forge fire. The mouthpiece is carved with a snarling visage, fangs of bone and a crown of runes tracing along the horn’s curved spine. A cord of worn leather wraps the base, polished by years in sun and rain, and a faint scent of resin and old rain clings to it. Legends say it was forged by a scattered band of berserkers who bound their war songs into the metal, letting a single note become a tidal wave of momentum on the battlefield. When you lift it and tilt toward the dawn, the horn seems to hum with the memory of a thousand battles, as if the steel could remember every target that ever trembled before its cry. On the field, its uses are less about piercing armor and more about stitching a rhythm through chaos. Two melodies lie in its voice, waiting for the cadence of footsteps to awaken them. Tap a long note and a pulse of Might and Fury rolls outward to nearby allies, a chorus that makes their strikes burn brighter, their shields stand firmer. Play another, and Quickness dances through the ranks, letting the crowd strike sooner, slip through a guard, or flood a gate with the tempo of their charge. The bearer’s stance shifts with the horn’s cadence, as if the drums of a berserker camp had climbed into the bones and given him a louder heartbeat. It is not a weapon that shatters a shield alone, but a conductor that lets a dozen smaller wars unfold at once. During a siege above a river town, the horn passes from hand to hand as a ritual gift to a captain who has learned to read sound as a map. The warriors move in a living pattern as the horn’s call threads through their steps: a shield wall shifts, arrows bend toward fresh targets, and every shout feels heavier because the horn has spoken it first. In this world, the berserker’s broadcast of courage is as valuable as any blade; the horn helps claim a clearing, not by brute noise but by guiding the tempo of fear and fury. Markets swallow such relics and trade them with their own weather. I watched a trader mention the Berserker’s Warhorn to a buyer at Saddlebag Exchange, where the crowd haggled as if the coin itself remembered every strike. Prices drift with mood and season; a horn like this can fetch a tidy sum if the buyer believes in the legend behind the chords—the right buyer sees the notes as a way to marshal a squad, to turn a moment of doubt into a shout that lands a decisive blow. The exchange is its own chorus, and the horn’s value breathes with it, rising or falling like a tide depending on who holds the story at that moment. When the last echo fades, the Berserker’s Warhorn remains, both keepsake and instrument, a memory of a pact that links iron, breath, and courage. It reminds the bearer that every clash has a rhythm, and every rhythm carries a destiny.