Rampager's Soft Wood Warhorn of Nullification sits on the bench like a pale relic, its bowl carved from drift-soft wood that smells faintly of rain and resin. The wood’s surface is warm and satin-smooth, grain lines curling in a map of tides and time. The mouthpiece is pale, horn-like, and worn smooth by hands that have cupped this horn in gusty winds. Along the shaft, slender inlays of pale bone catch the light, and runes—leafy patterns, tide marks, a careful, almost breathless script—trace a story that predates the harbor’s best gossip. The name arcs along the butt in looping letters, lacquered to resist sun and salt. When you lift it, the horn gives a dry creak, as if the wood itself sighs at the memory of marching feet. It feels old, yet alive, as though it absorbed the clamor of a hundred battles and learned to sing a counter melody. lore wraps around its edges with a quiet gravity. It’s said to have been hewn by a Rampager who learned to listen for the world’s quiet spaces between noise, where a plan can take form before the smoke of magic erupts. In those gaps, the warhorn would call back a vanishing moment, turning the tide not by raw force but by pruning away the impossible: a realm where every spell parties conjure multiplies, where enemies swarm with boons, where the air tightens with magic. The Nullification that names it whispers in the tavern corners: not a scream but a soft exhale that wipes away a chorus of enemy boons or cleanses allies of their heaviest burdens. The wood’s grain is rumored to drink in ambient magic, glimmering with a pale frost when such a moment arrives. In some hands it’s a reliquary, in others a tool; in any hand, it binds the battlefield to a larger story. practically, players have found that a quick note into the horn can strip a foe’s advantages, pinching the edge of their illusions and letting a frontline push forward. It’s not a brute instrument, but a conductor’s baton, guiding a team’s timing: a whispered purge here, a temporary shield there, a lull before the next chorus of revives. In raids and sieges, its calls synchronize with steadfast guardians and nimble scouts, turning the map’s rhythm into something almost musical—the tempo of a fight that ends not with a blaze of glory but with controlled mercy. Even as the wind howls and banners snap, the horn’s tone remains clear, a sound that promises restraint amid chaos. Prices drift through the Saddlebag Exchange as if a current keeps pushing them upriver. Last week, a wax-sealed note described a horn with the same soft grain, selling for a shade under a gold coin and a handful of copper. A harbor merchant stamped it with a pawed seal, noting that the wood’s grain could shift a few inches with the season and that the Nullification runes hold up best in damp months. The point wasn’t merely currency; it was the exchange of stories—the horn’s past owners, the battles it witnessed, the way it might shape a new campaign. If you stroll the quay at dusk, you’ll hear distant bells and a faint, dry whistle—like a promise—that Rampager's Soft Wood Warhorn of Nullification is listening, waiting for the moment to turn silence into strategy.