War God's Warhorn

War God's Warhorn rests on the table with a weight that seems to answer your breathing. Brass curves along its body like a rescued seashell, warm to the touch, the finish softened by years of handling. The mouthpiece wears a dark patina where lips would press, and a band of gold filigree spirals around the bell, catching light as if tiny suns blaze on the horn. Along its length, runes are etched in sharp relief, not merely decoration but a map of vows: honor, courage, the rage of a god who walked among mortals. The sigil at the horn's base glows faintly when the horn is warmed by a player's aura, hinting at some ancient pact sealed beneath the banners of old war camps. In its lore, it’s said it was hammered into being by priest-smiths who believed sound could steel the will of the brave, and that a single blast could turn the tide of a dying battle. It carries the scent of iron, smoke, and the kind of courage that only comes after long night marches and the shared breath of a hundred comrades. When a wielder raises War God's Warhorn, the world seems to slow a fraction. A chorus roars out, not loud enough to drown a battlefield but enough to sharpen the focus of those fighting beside you. Timely horn calls grant buffs—swift movement, a surge of vigor, a fortified resolve—and they ripple through allied ranks like a planned signal drawn in air. In practice, it’s less a weapon and more a commission: a crafted mandate to stand firm, to press the line, to remind the weary that ruin can be held at bay by orchestration as much as by steel. For a player who loves tempo and timing, the horn becomes a conductor’s baton: you cue a party member’s burst, you encourage a tank’s step forward, you thread a bloom of healing through a line of allies just as the enemy closes the gap. The horn’s presence also shapes the story of price and provenance. In markets, its glow is not purely aesthetic; it hints at scarcity and the weight of history. Traders and collectors speak in hushed tones of the Saddlebag Exchange, where the freshest creased scrolls and prime-condition relics find new guardians for a price that can look like a small fortune to a casual traveler. A horn with pristine engravings, with the myth still vivid at its rim, commands a premium; a worn one with only the memory of battles for ornament fetches less, yet still carries a reverent demand because what it represents survives in the telling. So it travels, from hand to hand, from auction hall to campfire, its breath a reminder of a shared vow. You may never march under its banner, yet when you imagine the horn’s call threading through a dusk-lit courtyard, you hear the old promises—war, faith, and the quiet courage to keep marching. Its legacy remains a quiet charge to every camp, a reminder to endure.