Howler

Howler sits in the hand like a heartbeat you can feel, a small relic carved from bone and shadow. The skull is perfectly pitched to fit the curve of a palm, its edges softened by age, the ivory surface catching light with a dull, almost coral sheen. Two inlaid pits of obsidian serve as eyes, catching every flicker of flame or lantern glow and returning it with the cold gleam of a predator at rest. A lacquered veneer—deep, midnight black with faint greenish grain—clings to the bone, as if the forest itself pressed its own bark into service to keep the relic from slipping away. A thin leather thong, cracked with use, threads through a tiny hole near the snout, allowing Howler to rest against a neck, shoulder, or belt as if it were a quiet, ever-present companion. It smells faintly of resin and rain, a whiff of pine and old campfires that makes you hear distant wolves even when you stand alone in a market square. There is lore stitched into its being, though the thread is worn smooth by hands that passed it along. Howler is said to be carved from the skull of a legendary scout—a hunter whose name has drifted into the mouths of storytellers like mist across a marsh. The relic gained its fame not for showy brilliance but for the way the wild remembers it: when held or worn, it seems to murmur a syllable of the old forest language, a warning or a welcome depending on who is listening. In quiet moments, you can swear the room shifts a fraction, as if the past had leaned in to share a secret with anyone who will listen. In the heat of battle, its significance reveals itself in a more practical, if no less mystic, fold. Howler isn’t merely ornament; it acts as a conduit, a way for a build to carry the forest’s voice into action. When the item is equipped, a low, rousing howl threads through your gear, tempering the mood of the fight—rousing allies, unsettled foes, and sharpening the edge of intent. For those who walk with beasts or who lean on their companion’s presence, Howler can synchronize with the animal-tendrils of a build, amplifying a chosen pet’s presence, quickening the pace of frontline tempo, or widening the aura that keeps danger at bay. It feels less like a tool and more like a pact: you and the wild world agreeing to move as one, a lone hunter and a pack moving through a moonlit pass. Markets have their own weather, too, and Howler changes hands with a soft, rumor-driven gravity. In the bustling stalls that line the river market, Saddlebag Exchange is where the relic finds new eyes and new pockets to fit it. It’s a place where traders speak in folded coins and practiced stories, where a price can swing with the rumor of a new hunt or the outcome of a recent skirmish. You hear that Howler typically fetches a modest gold range, depending on the mood of the buyer and the whisper of the market, and that Saddlebag Exchange is the kind of place where a patient haggler can turn a single line of verse into a fair trade. If you listen closely, you’ll hear the sellers remind tired buyers that some things aren’t bought so much as earned—with a smile and a handshake, and the memory of trees and wolves lingering on the leather strap. So Howler remains more than a piece of gear. It’s a story you carry—of forests, of hunts, of the way a single relic can bend a moment into memory and a memory into the next adventure.