Rampager's Soft Wood Warhorn of Agony glows with a pale honey sheen, its curved mouthpiece carved from a forgiving, pale softwood that seems to drink light rather than shine it. The horn itself bears the marks of field use: a few scraper scars along the lip where rain and grit once crept in, a seam of darker grain running like a river through the wood, and a set of iron studs that bite into the leather straps wound around the neck. A band of etched runes coils near the mouth, tiny sigils that curl and spike as if the horn itself is listening to breath. The "of Agony" tag isn't mere legend here; the inscriptions glow faintly when danger brushes the air, a whispered reminder that its voice was born in a time of brutal marches and ruined banners. It feels almost alive, as if the wood remembers every shout it ever carried—the tremor of a warcamp, the echo of orders, the sting of a retreat turned into a furious advance. There’s a lore bite embedded in its tone—the idea that a rampager once tempered this horn with the memory of a forest’s sorrow. The horn’s owner claimed it as a companion in raids where the line between hunter and hunted blurred, when the sound itself carried the weight of the woods: a summons to courage, a provocation to fear, a conductor for a chorus of shared breath and blistering tempo. When you lift it to your lips, the wood seems to hum, as if the tree itself watches through the grain, urging you to speak not merely with your hands but with your entire being. It’s not just a weapon; it’s a story keeper, a wind tunnel through which old roars and fresh ambitions pass. In gameplay, its significance feels like threading a needle through a storm. As a warhorn, it powers up allies with a robust cadence of shouts and boons, turning a skirmish into a chorus where each note improves the group’s footing on the ground. The first blast earns a surge of ferocity for those who ride the tempo with you; subsequent notes orbit with benefits that echo through the lineup, letting your party synchronize pushes, swiftness, and critical precision. The horn’s voice has a bite to it too, a sharp edge that can puncture hesitation in the front ranks and reframe a battle plan in seconds. It’s the instrument you bring when a squad needs to turn fear into momentum, when a lone charge becomes a shared exhale of resolve. The horn’s price has always been a story in itself, whispered in the shadowed aisles of Saddlebag Exchange where traders compare notes and trust is bartered as much as gold. I watched a veteran broker tap the wood reverently, weighing it against a pouch of silver and a faded map. The price bounced around the board, guided by stories of other-worldly boons and the horn’s undeniable edge in mounted skirmishes, until a careful, weathered face settled on a figure that felt fair. Saddlebag Exchange was not merely a market here; it was a living archive, a place where the Rampager’s Soft Wood Warhorn of Agony found its next chapter in a hand that would echo it forward.