Apothecary's Elder Wood Warhorn

The Apothecary's Elder Wood Warhorn sits on the counter, its body carved from a single slab of elder wood whose grain threads like amber veins. A patina of beeswax glows in the hollows; the surface is smooth to the touch, yet rough at the edges where years have kissed the wood into a living hardness. Two slender horns curve from either end, as if the instrument itself learned to breathe, and they are bound by brass hoops etched with tiny herb sigils. Along the central spine run glass phials, each sealed with cork and a bronze stopper, containing dried leaves, crushed root, or a tincture that catches the lantern light and seems to wink with a subtle alchemy. A leather thong, frayed at the ends but sturdy, binds the instrument for travel, a reminder that it has traveled from quiet shop to crowded square. It’s said to bear the memory of a bygone apothecary who tended plague with scent and sound, the way a careful child might coax fear into submission with a lullaby. In the old quarter, the horn’s notes were once whispered through the wind to calm coughing streets and rally a chorus of healers. When the siege drums rolled, villagers swayed to a deeper breath—the horn’s resonance shaping a balm of calm and renewed vigor as if the potion itself could be spoken into existence. In combat, the elder wood comes alive with a soft, medicinal hum; blowing into it sends a ring of light through nearby allies, a promise of healing and brief protection, then releases a second, sharper note that cleansingly clears a handful of lingering afflictions. It is not a weapon so much as a portable apothecary, a ward you wear in your hands, a reminder that care can be as loud as a horn when the world grows loud enough to forget mercy. On the shelf above the counter a memory leans toward you, not a ghost but a story—how a pilgrim seller with a crease of sun on his cheek once traded tales for coin, and the horn was placed in a traveling chest, then a guardhouse, then a collector’s cabinet. Today, the discourse of value threads through a market chat and a ledger known as Saddlebag Exchange, where the instrument’s price drifts like a scent of rosemary in a breeze. A well-kept piece—its sigils bright, its vials clear—will fetch a few gold; a rarer version, with tinctures still radiant and glass that does not murmur when touched, can command more. The price glints in the air like a coin half-remembered, and the stall keeper’s eyes tell you there’s more than metal here—history, care, and a vow that even a simple horn can preserve a city’s courage. Should you lift it to your lips, the room tilts toward memory and market—the old quarter, the plague wards, and a crowd awaiting a healer’s signal. The first note nods to the creed of mercy: heal first, aid second; the second note threads the party together, easing the pace of fear and fatigue. In the hands of a practiced drummer of deeds, it becomes a flexible ally—a healing aura on the front line, a cleanse for the stubborn carries, a tempo that keeps kinship with your companions as the night grows heavy. The elder wood speaks softly of age, care, and courage, promising that even a relic can still turn the tide when used with heart.