Berserker's Warhorn

Berserker's Warhorn gleams with a weathered patina: a curved ivory horn lacquered to a midnight black, its surface ripple-marked like a storm-tired sea, with brass fittings that catch the light at every angle and a strip of red leather cord binding a small sigil—a snarling crescent of runes—toward its throat. The horn's grip is rough yet reassuring, worn smooth by hands that have called others to battle and then soothed them back into focus with the same breath. Lore whispers that it once belonged to a berserker whose charge could melt into a single, thunderous note, turning chaos into a chorus and turning frightened eyes toward courage. When that horn blows, the world seems to tighten around the sound—the air hums with anticipation, the leather straps creak, and for a heartbeat the edge of fear sharpens into resolve. In play, the Berserker's Warhorn becomes less a weapon and more a conductor. Its melodies weave into the rhythm of combat, sharpening reflexes and sharpening purpose. A quick blast can grant ferocity to the bearer and nearby allies, a chorus that makes every strike feel heavier and every dodge more decisive. Use it to punctuate a line break in a siege, to rally allies when the maps grow dark and the enemies press in from every flank. The horn's notes pair naturally with heavy-hitting weapons, letting you start a burst, ride the momentum, and push toward a finish that feels earned rather than forced. It is the instrument of a frontline mind—someone who reads the battlefield as a piece of music and times each entrance, each retreat, like a measured cadence. Price threads its way through this story too, not as a ledger but as a memory you carry into the marketplace. In the bustle of the Saddlebag Exchange, rare travelers and veteran traders measure worth in stories as much as metal. A Berserker's Warhorn, trimmed with the promise of brutal efficiency, tends to sit at a premium—sold for gold and sometimes bartered through glints of ectoplasm and rare components. Negotiations unfold like a slow chorus; a stallholder will lean in, whisper how many charges of fury remain in the horn, and a buyer will weigh risk against legend, deciding whether to lift the horn and let it sing once more. So I walk away with the horn tucked in my pack, a weight that feels almost ceremonial as much as practical. It is a reminder that in this world, a single instrument can ripple through lives and battles alike—calling friends to stand taller, urging enemies to blink, and turning a moment of danger into a memory of courage. And somewhere in the market, a trader nods at the memory of that berserker who once charged on a breath of fire, and the horn waits, ready to sound again.