The Carrion Verdant Warhorn of Air rests on the rough oak counter, its bone-white arc catching the late tavern light. The surface is smooth yet alive to the touch, as if carved a century ago from the rib of some scavenger that rode the wind. Verdant lacquer blooms along the ribs in a serpentine pattern, a toxic-green sheen that glints when the room cools. Small rivulets of green glass bead along breath of the horn, and the mouthpiece is wrapped in salted sinew that bears both wear and a memory of use. A faint, sickly scent lingers—earth and rain and something like rain-soaked leaves after a storm. The lore whispers then: this horn was pulled from a carrion bird that fed on the storm's edge, and bound by wind-singers to guide bereaved caravans through fog and ruin. Those who know the old songs say the Verdant word blooms when the horn is blown, telling the air itself to listen for a signal. Its power in the field is not merely ornament. When pressed to breath, the Carrion Verdant Warhorn of Air unsettles the air with a chorus of gusts: a line of displaced foes, brief bursts of wind that scramble archers and shatter brittle formations, and a protective draft that lends swiftness to nearby allies. In the right hands it becomes a chorus, a living weather report that shifts the balance of a skirmish. For skirmishers and healers alike, the horn's calls feel like a conversation with the sky—one that can deter pursuit, open a path, or cushion a fall. It is the sort of tool that makes a battlefield feel less like a corridor of steel and more like a wind-sculpted puzzle, where each exhale is a clue and every pause a chance to redraw the map with wind. Markets, of course, remember the wind as well as the wielder. I wandered into the Harbor Row, where the Saddlebag Exchange hums with resin-scented breath and bargaining hands. The marquee posters show the Carrion Verdant Warhorn of Air in pale emerald, the price tagged in careful gold flickers. Traders exchange stories as often as coins; some whisper that the horn holds a stubborn memory of storms and the echo of a carrion chorus, others insist it’s a grantor of momentum and calm in equal measure. The day I passed, a breeze carried the tale of a buyer who walked away with it for just shy of five gold, a fair price if storms behave, and a better one if they don’t. No matter the ledger, the horn settles into a caravan with the same quiet expectancy: a living artifact that has learned to listen to the world’s weather and speak in a voice of wind. If you hear the old wind calling your name and you have a pulse to match its rhythm, the Carrion Verdant Warhorn of Air might be the piece that makes the world breathe anew. In the end, its value is currency and testimony for wind.