Carrion Verdant Warhorn of Corruption

The Carrion Verdant Warhorn of Corruption sits on the market stall like a fossil kissed by green fire, its curved horn split between bone-white patina and a living sheen of jade that crawls along its ridges. Carved runes coil around the mouthpiece, delicate if cruel, while mossy scars cinch the midsection in a tangle of new growth and old rot. When you turn it in your hands, the texture shifts under your touch: a slick, almost damp surface where the verdant patina breathes heat, and a weight that seems to carry a whisper of distant marshes and quiet funerals. The horn smells faintly of rain, iron, and the sour sweetness of bloom gone wrong, as if death had learned to flirt with life and failed the kiss. lore has it that it was shaped by a renegade circle who traded the last breath of carrion for a seed of life, binding decay to renewal in a single, dangerous note. In the hands of a player, the horn is not merely ornament. Its call weaves into the fabric of combat like a living chorus, a tool for orchestration on a field that demands timing as much as courage. Blown at the crest of a charge, it fans a roiling fog of corruption that clings to armor and weapon edges, slowing the pace of foes while reviving the resolve of allies who listen close enough to the cadence. The verdant pulse that follows is not just menace; it is a spark that unsettles retreat and invites momentum. Those who master the horn learn to ride its counterpoint: summon a bloom of necrotic vines that lash toward enemies, then peel back to reveal a corridor of healing sap that steadies wounded flankers. It feels like a performance, a duet between the wearer’s will and the stubborn, stubborn world that resists rot and growth in equal measure. On a night when rain stitched the city’s streets with silver threads, I watched a squad of rangers and necromancers synchronize around this instrument. When the horn’s breath rippled through the square, the battalion ahead slackened, not out of fear alone but from the uncanny sense that the living and the dead were stepping in time to one musician’s note. The corruption’s touch loosened the enemy’s cohesion, while the verdancy braided a shield around the group—an emerald arch of brief invulnerability that felt less like armor and more like a shared vow. Markets are where relics like this truly become stories, and Saddlebag Exchange is a stage all its own. A ledger there keeps a fluctuating tally of demand and danger, and the horn’s price shifts with the season’s battles and the whispers of nearby crypts. I heard the traders speak softly of “the horn that paints the ground with green decay,” their voices colored by the thrill of risk. A buyer might leave with a packet of gold and a cautious grin, knowing a weapon that bends life toward a fight is as volatile as it is coveted. The horn’s value, like its power, is a fragile balance—between fear and fascination, between the quiet promise of renewal and the sharp edge of corruption. So it remains, this strange instrument: a relic that refuses to be merely decorative, a compact legend that keeps writing itself into the world with every exhale.