Berserker's Soft Wood Warhorn rests on the table, its pale honey grain catching the lamplight and throwing back a quiet heartbeat of warmth. The body is slim and deceptively gentle to the touch, carved from a soft wood that yields a velvety surface, as if the forest itself pressed a sigh into the grain. A curved mouthpiece bends like a question mark, lacquered in a thin amber gloss, while shallow, deliberate grooves trace a map of ages along its length. A brass ring glints where a worn leather strap threads through, the sort of detail that hints at countless camps, whispered jokes, and the long ride home after a hard-won victory. There’s a rumor tied to its lore that keeps the horn from simply being a piece of wood and brass. It’s said to have been carved by a berserker whose temper could shake the branches of a silvered tree, yet who learned to temper that rage with a steady, almost ceremonial withhold. When this horn speaks, the stories go, it doesn’t merely shout a charge; it calls the mind back to discipline, to timing, to the moment when courage becomes a plan. In the quiet between notes, you can almost hear the echo of a drum, the murmur of the scouts, the neat alignment of a company that understood the weight of a single breath before the opening bell. In practice, the warhorn is more than ornament or superstition. It is a tool, a tether between a lone traveler and a caravan of allies. Blown in the thick of skirmish, it lashes out with a clear, cutting note that cuts through noise and fear, snapping attention to a rally point or a retreat in the same breath. The sound breathes momentum into a battle line, quickening the pace of a march, sharpening resolve in a tense moment, and nudging the heart toward a second wind when the body would rather surrender. In the hands of a seasoned partner, its notes braid with those of swords and shouts, turning scattered courage into a heartbeat that keeps time with the next push forward. As the market crowd shifts around the stall, the conversation drifts from war stories to value. The Saddlebag Exchange ledger glints on a nearby screen, and the price tag on Berserker's Soft Wood Warhorn loosens with the turn of a wrist: a respectable sum, enough to be noticed but not so steep that a buyer’s hope is crushed. The vendor, eyes bright with the thrill of a good deal, ticks the clock and waits for a counteroffer, explaining that the horn’s wood—soft, warm, resilient—has always drawn a particular crowd: those who want a weapon that feels like a companion rather than a tool. I haggle with a smile, feel the leather’s grip tighten around the strap as if the horn itself is settling into a new life. When the exchange is done, the horn passes to the buyer with a promise of presence—of storms endured, of battles remembered, of a story continuing to unfold with every breath blown into it. So the Berserker’s Soft Wood Warhorn leaves the stall not merely as an item, but as a memory tempered by time: a piece of the wild pressed into craft, ready to roar again when its moment comes.