Magi's Soft Wood Warhorn

Magi's Soft Wood Warhorn lies on a folded cloth, its pale sapwood catching the lamplight like a tide-washed bone. The grain runs with a quiet intelligence, curling into slender whorls that feel smooth enough to tilt a fingertip and listen for a heartbeat. Its body is slender and undefeated by time, the edges softened by years of handling, as if it learned patience from the hands that held it first. Along the length, sigils etched in a blue-black lacquer glimmer faintly, almost shyly, whenever a draft shifts the room and makes the air tense with memory. The mouthpiece wears a thin wrap of leather, scarred by travel, and the bore is a clean, purposeful line that seems to drink light before it gives it back in sound. There’s a resinous, rain-soaked scent to it, the crisp tang of forest paths and old rituals—a scent that whispers of a grove long protected and now half-sung into legend. Lore has it that the horn was hewn by a circle of magi who taught novices to listen as much as to command. They sought a timber with a soft, receptive tone, something that would not whip up the world’s dangers with harshness but invite courage to rise gently, like a dawn recognized after a long night. The Soft Wood’s hallmark isn’t sheer volume but the way it carries a message; a note that feels as if it travels through roots and memory, binding ally to ally with an unspoken vow. In taverns and camps along caravan routes, the horn is spoken of as a conduit between watcher and ward, between the keeper of the road and those who shoulder the weight of the road’s dangers. When it’s blown, the sound seems to settle the air, a warm, clear call that steadies breath and steadies hearts—an invitation to press forward together rather than to scatter in fear. In practical terms, the Magi's Soft Wood Warhorn has become a prized instrument for those who lead with presence rather than brute force. Its tone is patient enough to cut through the din of battle without shredding the surrounding mood, and its magic feels like a hand on the shoulder rather than a shout from the throat. Players who favor a supportive tempo discover that the horn helps synchronize a group’s movements, turning scattered efforts into a coordinated rhythm. It’s the kind of tool that makes a small, stubborn victory feel earned, not given, by the sheer trust it fosters among teammates. For scouts and guardians alike, it’s a beacon—one that draws the eye, the ear, and the will of those who walk at your side. Market talk threads its way through its story as well. Traders gossip at the edge of the market square about the horn’s worth, the way its cost shifts with demand and the seasons’ moods. In Saddlebag Exchange, merchants haggle with a practiced patience, weighing the horn’s aged patina against new, glittering offerings. A fair price is a coin that feels earned rather than expected, a clause in a bargain that says this piece belongs to a story worth telling again and again. And as the sun sinks, the horn sits quiet again, its soft wood grain catching the last light, ready to sing a new chapter when the next traveler asks it to.