Cleric's Elder Wood Warhorn glints in the lamplight, its body carved from aged elderwood with a grain that coils like runes beneath a lacquered sheen, and a brass mouthpiece worn smooth by prayers and seasons. The surface bears tiny sigils—healing lamps, crescent moons, patient hands tracing mercy—that catch the candle’s glow and spill it back in a soft, amber shimmer. A scent of resin and old sap clings to the wood, and the texture is warm and welcoming, as if the horn remembers every whispered chant pressed into its grain. Lore suggests it was hewn by a hermit healer who wandered the mountain wards, tempered in a spring fed by moonlight, blessed by clerics who bound its voice to the heartbeats of those who listen. When you press the mouthpiece to your lips, the first breath is a quiet sigh, and a note swells into a protective wind that brushes allies with quiet strength. In practice, its songs are less about damage and more about covenant: a rally that steadies tremoring hands, a healing resonance that threads through wounds, and a chorus that raises the tempo of a group’s defenses. The horn’s sigils glow faintly as you call for a shield, and the air narrows the distance between fear and courage, turning a skirmish’s chaos into a moment of deliberate, careful advance. It is a tool of mercy as much as might—a reminder battles are won by calm minds as by sharpened blades, and that elderwood remembers every vow made in the heat of duty. In the market’s bustle, its fame travels with the soft footfalls of traders and pilgrims. A seller at Saddlebag Exchange murmurs about the horn’s value in terms of memory and craftsmanship, not mere metal and resin, and the posted price drifts with demand. Some offer gold, others haggle for a lower share, drawn by the horn’s reputation for turning despair into resolve. The true cost, a few buyers argue, lies in the weight of the lives it has soothed and the stories it will carry forward. I’ve watched a caravan guard lift it with reverent hands, listening to the first breath before a storm and feeling a quiet courage settle around the group like a shawl. The Cleric's Elder Wood Warhorn does not merely signal a battle’s start; it binds people to a shared purpose, a chorus that roots them to the land they defend and to the mercy that keeps them marching toward dawn. And so, when a horn is raised beside a campfire, you hear more than music—you hear a vow, etched in elderwood and brass, that some wounds can be mended by song, and that the world, for a moment, chooses to listen.