Carrion Legionnaire Horn of Vision

Carrion Legionnaire Horn of Vision rests in my palm, bone-white and cool as a grave’s breath, its surface carved with thin, spiraling sigils that look like dried riverbeds after a flood. The horn swells into a muted, thunderous curve, a fallen omen wrapped in lacquered hide that feels both ancient and strangely alive to the touch. When you tilt it to the light, faint amber veins pulse along the lacquer like the last embers of a dying campfire. Its mouth is bored with careful, almost ceremonial precision, and the rim bears tiny notches—the marks of a tool that measured more than inches or inches of sound, a tool that measured fate. The scent that lingers is a winter garden of preserved rot and iron, faint enough to ignore until your breaths catch on it, reminding you that this horn’s voice was earned in blood and old wars. The lore kiss—if you strain your hearing past the creak of old wood and sand in the seams—speaks of the Carrion Legion, the silent marchers who haunt the edge of memory, the dead who learned to listen before they learned to walk again. The horn, they say, was the wayfarer’s horn for those willing to court omens: blown not to call troops, but to call visions. A breath through the curved bone releases a pale, green-tinted mist that threads through air like cold silk, and in that mist, you glimpse a past hour—shields raised, banners torn, footsteps that map a route you were never meant to walk. The vision is brief, a covenant with the watcher’s eye: see what once was, but only in fragments, as if the battlefield itself were flickering in and out of a dream. It does not grant perfect sight; it grants induced memory, a way to chase clues left behind by those who no longer need eyes to see. In the world, the horn’s use threads through every expedition like a stubborn thread in a seam. A scout blows it to reveal a hidden corridor behind a mausoleum wall, or to catch the whisper of a patrol turning a corner where the living would miss the tell-tale dust. For scholars and salvagers, it’s a tool to assemble a larger story from the shards of history scattered across ruin and bone. For those who walk with caravans, it’s a warning and a lure at once—the glow in the mist can point to a cache of relics or reveal a trap laid by a hunter who values silence over coin. That clandestine commerce, too, moves like a shadow across the marketplace, especially at the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders haggle beside rickety tables and stacked crates. I heard someone call it a ‘wise trader’s horn’ once, a nod to the nerve it takes to part with something that speaks in visions. A few brightcoins, a handful of luminescent shards, maybe a rare salvage scrap, and the Horn of Vision changes hands. It’s priced not merely for its glow, but for the certainty it can lend when the night grows long and the map grows thin. I-shaped my grip around the horn again and felt the road widen—the path lit not by certainty alone, but by the stubborn, patient truth of memory.