Magi's Full Moon Warhorn sits on a weathered saddlebag, its crescent horn carved from lunar-tinged obsidian, moonsilver inlays along the lip catching the dim campfire glow. The texture is cool and slightly grainy to the touch, as if minutes of wind-blown frost have settled into the grain of the wood and the metal threads that wind around it. Runes trace the surface in delicate crescents, and a single moonstone set at the center catches and refracts light like a pale eye watching the night pass over a quiet hillside. It feels ancient and alive at once, as if it remembers the cries of long-dead scouts and the soft steps of conspirators who met under a full, watchful moon. Its lore threads through whispered conversations in markets and along caravan trails: some say it was tempered by moonlit magic during a clandestine gathering of Magi who spoke with tides and stars, others swear it answered the voice of a shepherd who learned to listen to the phase of the sky before night fell. When you lift it, the horn gives off a low, resonant note, not a shout but a careful invitation to listen. The sound seems to travel along the hollow of the night itself, a pulse that stretches from the fire to the distant ridge and back again. In the field, its purpose unfolds like a story you tell aloud to keep fear at bay. It isn’t simply a weapon or a badge of prestige; it is a signal flare, a chorus, a reminder that partnership can be tuned as surely as a lute string. Those who know how to read the horn’s song—rangers, mesmer-adept performers, and veterans who have learned to hear beyond the obvious—use it to synchronize efforts, to usher a group into a common breathing pattern, to invite allies closer without a word. Its notes weave through the air, scattering shadows and sharpening gaze, making a team feel as if it moves under a single, patient constellations. Pricing threads into the tale as naturally as the wind moves through a pass. Traders glide between caravans, trading stories and wares, and the Magi’s Full Moon Warhorn is one of those items that arrives with a rumor and a price tag only after a quiet negotiation. At Saddlebag Exchange, its value surfaces in careful, measured listings—pieces of a larger mosaic where rare moon-touched gear finds new hands. A buyer may seek it for its aesthetic alone, drawn by the pale glow of the moonstone and the old-world charm of its runes; another seeks the instrument’s latent power, a bond with the night that helps a party maintain tempo during a long, perilous trek. The market breathes around it, sometimes nudging the price upward on a cloudy evening, sometimes letting the brass and stone settle into a comfortable glow when the moon is new. In use, the full moon horn becomes a thread in a larger tapestry—an ally’s whisper turned loud enough to carry over the clash of steel and the rustle of leaves. It isn’t a magic trick so much as a shared memory made audible: the memory that the night belongs to a team that knows how to listen, how to trust the call of a harmonized breath, and how to move as one when the world grows cold and bright at once.