Snow Garden Warhorn Skin sits on the counter, a shard of frost-glass gleaming with pale frost-work and a whisper of winter's breath. Its body curves like a frozen reed, whitened with enamel and ice-blue lines tracing the patterns of an orchard in snowfall. Tiny blossoms, etched in relief, curl along the edges as if they were about to bloom in a chilly morning. The wood underlayer appears through the glaze in a muted, honeyed tone, as if the instrument had been carved from a branch scented by pine and rain. A seam of silver runs along the horn, catching light and throwing it back in a cold arc. When you turn it, the texture shifts from smooth to subtly grainy, like frost forming on a pane—cool to the touch and oddly comforting to the grip. Lore says it was forged by a gardener-turned-artisan who tended a greenhouse hidden in a valley where winter never fully thawed. They say the warhorn was used to wake hibernating bees and to coax the first thaw from the earth, a ritual of patience that turned snow into a shared chorus. The skin's frostwork echoes those rituals: blossoms survive the cold, the silver seam holds a memory of warm hands, and the scent of resin lingers when the horn is raised to the light. In practical terms, the Snow Garden skin is a cosmetic: it redraws the weapon's appearance while leaving your stats intact, letting you tell a quieter story with every swing. On the field, the weapon catches a little more of the ambient light, and the frost-etched blooms catch the eye during a moment of pause between heals and bursts. Some players pair it with winter events, some with the call of a caravan in a snowbound market—each rider shaping their own myth about why a gardener would gift a warhorn to a world that never stops moving. It becomes less about power and more about presence: a reminder that beauty can outlast even the harshest weather. Market and price drift through crowded aisles as traders whisper about demand as if it were a rumor carried on chilly air. The price threads its way through listings, and you’ll find it priced differently as Market days tilt—one moment a bargain, the next a treasure. A glance at Saddlebag Exchange can reveal the current pulse of that shimmer: sellers post hopeful counts, buyers scan for a steady sign, and the page turns with the season, as if the garden itself had a stock chart. Closing: In that ordinary room, someone pushes the horn into the light and tells a stranger about the winter greenhouse where stories grow. Outside, dusk shrouds the market and the wind carries the chime of bells from a caravan. The Snow Garden Warhorn Skin catches that moment, a beacon for a buyer who wants a story as much as a tool. Seasons rotate, traders smile, and the item breathes, ready to begin anew in another hand.