Carrion Legionnaire Horn of Rage

The Carrion Legionnaire Horn of Rage gleams with a weathered brass patina, its surface etched with bone-white sigils that curl like frost on a blade. The horn’s lip is ragged from ages of wind and clamor, and a stubborn crust of dried blood runs along its knurled rim, catching the light as if it still thirsts for combat. A leather thong threads through a stubborn bore near the narrow crown, so it can be worn as a pendant or slotted into a ceremonial harness for skirmishes that never truly end. When you hold it, the texture rises under your fingertips—granular, almost bone-like, with a warmth that speaks of long nights spent around crackling fire and whispered oaths. The lore speaks of a carrion legionnaire who carried this horn through crumbling fortresses, rallying the broken into one last, furious charge before the earth itself seemed to lean forward and listen. In those tales, the horn is not just metal; it is a portal for rage, a conduit through which the fallen’s fury is poured back into the living for a breathless moment. In the world’s wider rumor mill, the horn has a practical heartbeat beyond myth. When blown, it resonates with a tremor that stirs the bones of nearby fighters, sharpening focus and turning scattered units into a coherent line for a short while. A rallying cry threads through the din, granting a burst of power—Might and Ferocity for friends, plus a touch of speed that makes retreat feel foolish. Those who wield it learn to temper restraint with tempo, to time the blast to when an enemy line staggers or a siege begins to tilt. The horn does not fight for you; it invites you to fight smarter, to synchronize steps with comrades and to trust the momentum of a moment that, once released, cannot be recalled. Market whispers find the Horn of Rage resting on maps and stalls more often than not, its value swinging with rumor and season. Vendors hint at a price that fluctuates like heat on sun-baked stones, and collectors chase stories as much as metal. It isn’t just cost; it’s a memory, a decision to trust the horn’s call at the right hour. Some traders recount haggling tales at Saddlebag Exchange, where a coin purse spills across a wooden counter and a deal seals the horn into a tourniquet of history. They trade measured increments—gold pieces and silver shavings—across a ledger that seems to breathe with the page-turns of old battles. So the Carrion Legionnaire Horn of Rage remains more than an ornament or a tool. It’s a hinge in the door between remembered carnage and renewed purpose. When the horn sounds, the world moves a fraction faster, the fight tightens, and those who hear it know that rage, if managed, can become a map back to courage. In quiet moments afterward, I wipe the horn's mouth, listen for distant drums, and record how its echo changes a single skirmish into a shared legend tonight.