Daydreamer's Warhorn Skin rests in the palm like a quiet memory, a curved ivory horn etched with constellations of faint runes that drift and fade as you tilt it toward the light. Its surface is cool to the touch, lacquered to a glass-smooth finish that catches every hue—moon-gray at the tip, blooming into soft lilac and a whisper of frost-blue along the carved edges. Tiny specks of gold dust cling to the grain, not glitter but a settled dusting that suggests dust of dawns and late evenings when the city slept and dreamers wandered. The texture bites gently at the knuckles, not rough, not slick, but oddly living, as if the horn remembers every breath that passed over it. The lore tied to its name speaks of night markets where dream-weavers traded whispered stories for copper beads, and of a workshop hidden behind a veil of rain where the horn’s maker coaxed a sliver of sleeping sky into its core. They claimed the Daydreamer could calm the loudest alarm in a battlefield, if a listener could hear the soft chime that lulls the world into a slower cadence. In the heat of battle—or the hush of a long expedition—the skin remains a pure cosmetic, but it feels like a bridge between two lives. Equipped on a character’s off-hand, the horn’s silhouette shifts into a more graceful, arcing form, and the notes it releases are gentle, a sustained undertone rather than a brassy shout. Players notice that when a call-to-action appears or a channeled spell is released, the horn emits a short, dreamlike trill that seems to hang in the air for a heartbeat longer than usual, as if the wearer’s intention has been softened by the memory of a distant sleep. It is a weapon skin that tells a story without altering damage or power, so it becomes a badge of character, a conversation piece, a talisman during long marches through sunlit valleys or storm-sickened coves. Market days unfold pieces of that story in the world beyond combat. In the bustling Saddlebag Exchange, I watched a quiet trader window a Daydreamer’s Warhorn Skin between a glinting vambrace and a bundle of dried herbs, the price slipping around the corners of gold as players haggled over provenance and rarity. The seller claimed it was a dream kept in a horn, a reward for those who listened—to companions, to winds, to the slow, patient drum of distant markets. It wasn’t the most practical purchase, they admitted, but it was the kind of piece that lengthened a journey, turning each outing into a whispered procession of colors and memory, a reminder that some treasures are not for the battlefield alone, but for the quiet moments when a traveler looks up at the sky and believes, just for a breath, that the day can dream again. Some evenings, the horn’s glow slips beneath the veil of dusk and guides a hesitant traveler home, reminding everyone that brave journeys begin with a soft, shared melody.