Carrion Tribal Warhorn of Rage

Carrion Tribal Warhorn of Rage glistens with a weathered patina, a long bone horn wrapped in cracked red leather, its surface etched with sinewy spirals and a black eyed raven carved in basalt. The horn breathes a scent of dried resin and distant rain, as if it carries the memory of a dozen bivouacs where carrion birds circled, waiting for the signal to move. When you lift it, the grain of the horn feels warm under your palm, like a live ember, and the leather grip crackles with age, as if the craft had been taught by hands that knew how to draw rain from bone. The lore that clings to it speaks of a caravan that moved through bone dry steppes, where a chieftain would blow this horn to call kin and foe alike to their fate, to bend the march to a single furious will. It is said that the horn does not merely announce rage; it invites it, awakening the ancestral fury that once surged through the tribes that tamed the waste. In battle, the Warhorn of Rage is less a tool of war and more a voice in a chorus. A measured breath sends a swelling note that stiffens resolve in those who stand near, a shared surge of vigor, focus, and ferocity. Friends find their footing sharpened, shields feel steady in their bearers' hands, and even the least aggressive ally leans into the fray with a surge of adrenaline. Its second note cuts across commotion like wind through dried brush: a sharper blast that unsettles enemies, breaking their rhythm and drawing attention away from analysts of the frontline. The horn's world weary timbre makes it a symbol as much as a weapon; an emblem of a people who carved their survival from scavenged relics and turned them into a rallying cry. I once watched a hunter trade a glimmering fragment for it at Saddlebag Exchange, the stall's tarp fluttering as the price tag swung in the wind. The clerk murmured a figure around one gold and some silver, then shrugged at the chorus of bargaining voices that followed. Others swore they could hear the horn bite in the price, that even a good deal carried a trace of the caravan's feverish dawn. Still, for the right hand, the Warhorn of Rage becomes more than currency; it becomes a thread that knots a coalition, a signal to draw together when the dust starts to rise and the road ahead narrows to a single, furious line. In the months that followed harvest, it moved between tents and tables, a constant reminder of what rage can forge and what it can fracture. Caravan guards wore it like a banner, and buyers at Saddlebag Exchange learned to read its tone before trading. Prices hovered around a gold and a silver or two, fluctuating with festival crowds and market whispers. For those who earned it honestly, the horn meant leadership in a storm not vanity, but a responsibility to steer the group through the grit.