Honed Soft Wood Warhorn rests on a sun-warmed table in a quiet harbor house, its pale grain glimmering like a kept secret. The wood is soft to the touch, smooth where hands have caressed it into shape, yet resilient enough to hold a keen edge of sound. The bore is carved with a fine thread of leaf-etching, a vine that wraps around the bell and climbs toward a brass mouthpiece worn by years of blowing and listening. A leather thong is looped through a notch near the base, a reminder that this horn has traveled with a traveler, perched on a saddle or slung over a camp chair as night settled like a shawl over the road. When you lift it, the scent of pine and sea sap rises in a slow memory, a physical trace of every camp it has ever woken with a note. In the stories the horn seems to carry, there is a quiet lore that threads its tone into the world’s wider fabric. It is said to be carved by a woodwright who learned the old songs from a lone hermit who lived at the edge of a pine coast, where storms hollow the salt from the air and fill the air with rumor. The soft wood bears the memory of rivers and markets and the glimmer of dawn through a grove that many believed to be sacred. The horn’s etched vine is more than decoration; it is a map of paths once walked by wanderers, scouts who signaled a caravan’s safe passage through fog and feud, and a promise that a single, well-timed note could bend fear toward caution and courage toward action. That lore threads into the present, where the horn’s presence in any camp is a reminder that voices—blown in harmony with wind and will—are instruments of alliance as much as of defiance. As a tool in the field, the Honed Soft Wood Warhorn is both call and shield. Blown toward a skirmish’s edge, it sends a ripple of encouragement across the ranks, sharpening focus and restoring a breath to weary shoulders. Its notes weave through the clamor of slammed gates and shouted orders, guiding companions back to each other when the melee pushes them apart. It is the kind of weapon that does not strike at the enemy so much as shift the rhythm of battle—raising momentum for a push, steadying nerves for a retreat, or signaling a regroup when a frontline begins to fray. In quieter moments, the horn’s tone lingers, a warm chord that lingers in the campfire light and invites your party to trade stories of where they found it and what it has saved them from. The market tells its own tale, though, and that tale is a traveler’s one. At Saddlebag Exchange, a grubby but sharp-eyed merchant will measure its worth in silver and stories, tracing the horn’s warmth to the road it has walked. A fair price might be a handful of silver here, a small trade there, or a barter of a cherished trinket that once carried a different wind. The horn’s value is never only metal and coin; it is the memory of a voice that once carried a caravan through a storm, a reminder that every note sent into the world returns, like a tide, to the hand that raised it.