Dragon's Voice

Dragon's Voice lies on the table like a captured breath, a slender instrument of brass and horn, its surface lacquered in green-gold sheen that shifts with the flamelight. The body tapers into a coiled serpentine shape, scales carved along the length and catching every glint of sun or candle. The mouthpiece, wrapped in pale dragonbone and a thread of crimson cord, invites a touch and a test of sound. When you lean in, you hear a low, living hum—not a note yet, but a pulse, as if the artifact itself is listening for someone to speak. It feels warm, almost warm enough to glow with its own memory, and the longer you cradle it, the more you sense that this thing carries not just sound but history. Locals whisper that Dragon's Voice is more than metal and craft. A legend survives the grain of the wood and the curl of the runes—that a skald once bargained with a waking elder dragon and bound a portion of its tongue to a reliquary, so that the dragon’s memory could be carried through sound rather than wind. In ruins and on trading routes alike, the horn seems to hum with an echo of breaths long gone, a reminder that a single voice could ripple across a battlefield, a village, and a cave mouth. In practice, the instrument slips into the world like a key to a room you always suspected was there. When carried into a squad’s orbit, Dragon's Voice is said to lend focus to the minds around it; a single activation can sharpen reflexes, heighten awareness of nearby sigils, and coax shadowy paths from the walls into view. Players have used it to calm frayed nerves during tense rallies, to unlock a chorus of whispers within a ruined temple, or to awaken a memory among otherwise stubborn stones. It doesn’t force events so much as tilt the balance of attention—like a storyteller leaning into a campfire and coaxing everyone to listen a little closer. In the right hand, it feels less like a weapon and more like a vow spoken aloud—the vow that a voice can carry a group through danger, through doubt, through fear. Market life breathes around Dragon's Voice too. When I stood at a stall, the owner spoke in measured cadences about how this relic travels between hands as if guided by an unseen hand. He pointed toward Saddlebag Exchange, where the chatter of traders forms a constant tide. The price wobbles with almost nautical rhythm—surging when a dragon event shakes the map, dipping when distant markets quiet down—yet it isn’t simply numbers that move. It’s the story those numbers tell: who is listening, who is willing to lend a voice to the chorus, who remembers the old dragon’s memory and believes it can shape the next chapter. Holding Dragon's Voice, you become part of that ongoing narrative—the instrument’s pulse aligning with yours, linking past and present in a single breath. And in a world where voices can bind memory to metal and memory to the world, that breath matters more than any single note.