Oiled Orichalcum Warhorn Mouthpiece

The Oiled Orichalcum Warhorn Mouthpiece gleams with a quiet, merciless sort of polish, like a coin pressed by the hands of a smith who still remembers the flame of a forge. The metal is a pale, honeyed gold, with a fine lattice of micro-grooves that catch light and spill it back in sparks. A thin slick of oil clings to the surface, dark as a midnight lake, so that along the lip of the mouthpiece you can feel a whisper of movement—oil smoothing the breath, a promise of smoother notes. There are runic engravings along the taper, notched and almost too subtle to read at first glance, a map of some forgotten procession of heralds whose steps echoed through timbered halls and clay-scented markets. It looks as if it could have traveled through markets, ship holds, and sieges alike, gathering stories and salt along its edge. In the lore threads I’ve listened to while creaking wheelbars carried crates of this and that through sunset lanes, the mouthpiece isn’t merely a piece of metal and oil. It’s said to carry the memory of the last great rally, when a line of banners snapped and then surged forward as one, all because a single breath threaded through the instrument with perfect intention. Orichalcum itself is spoken of as a star-forged metal, tempered by pressure and time; to be mounted as a mouthpiece is to invite a little of that quiet, stubborn light into the throat of a horn. When you cradle it, you can sense the weight of that history—the way a veteran might cradle a passed-down badge, not to flaunt it, but to remember the oath that came with it. The mouthpiece feels older than the hands that hold it, older than the latest battlefield strategy, and yet ready to be part of whatever comes next. From a gameplay perspective, its value isn’t just in the sheen. It changes how a warhorn speaks in the moment. The oils and the precise grind of the lip-edge smooth out the notes, allowing the hero who wields it to project with steadier breath and more consistent resonance. The horn’s calls tend to land with a fuller, clearer tone, weaving buffs and signals tighter into the cadence of a squad’s movements. In practical terms, the mouthpiece makes it easier to sustain longer, more reliable bursts of rally, to sharpen the edge of a sound that coordinates a group, or to carry a warning across a wide clearing where chatter would otherwise dull the signal. It’s the difference between a note that drifts and a note that lands. I watched a traveler barter for it in a crowded market lane, the haggle winding through spices and rope and the slow, careful counting of coins. The vendor’s stall—Saddlebag Exchange, a name you hear whispered with both respect and curiosity—had pulled up a weather-worn map of prices, and the mouthpiece traded hands for a price that fluctuated with the day’s supply and the rumor of a fresh cache. One dawn it’s a handful of silver; by dusk, a clear gold piece wasn’t out of the question if a buyer came with a story to tell and a willingness to wait for a better rate. It’s the sort of item that turns from rare relic to market-ready necessity depending on who’s listening to the road and who’s ready to forge the next chorus.