Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn glows with the pale discipline of birch, its surface a ribbon of fine grain that catches the light like silk under moonlit rain. The body curves with a scholar’s patience, a gentle S-curve that fits the hand without resistance, every inch worn smooth by countless lips and winter breath. On the bell, sigils are carved with the care of a scribe who learned mercy by heart: a cluster of healing runes, a sheltering arch, and a small crescent that hints at blessings cradled between dawn and dusk. A narrow seam binds halves that once traveled different roads, and a copper rivet gleams where the wind once pulled at travelers’ coats. The finish bears the scent of resin and old linen, a reminder that this horn has been carried through rain-soaked streets and prayerful halls alike. Lore clings to its soft wood like mist to a hillside. It was forged not for show but for service, in the hands of clerics who walked between villages and skittering camps, mending tired throats with whispered notes and steady breath. They say the horn chose its owner as much as the owner chose it, answering a vow spoken in a chapel that smelled of beeswax and smoke. When the town bell tolled in a moment of danger, that vow rose in a single breath, filling the square with a wavering light and turning fear into a quiet courage. The weapon, if you could call it that, became a messenger: not a blade but a balm, not a shout but a shield of sound. In the world of skirmishes and long nights, the Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn is less a tool and more a companion. When it sings, it calls forth a circle of action around the bearer: a surge of focus that steadies jittering hands, a softening of wounds, a brief dawn of fortitude. Allies draw near as the notes unfold, and the battlefield itself seems to exhale. A well-timed breath can grant a moment of clarity, quickening hearts and lengthening endurance, turning a narrow passage into a corridor of hope. It’s not simply about raw power; it’s about the rhythm of survival—the way a pause in the chorus can save a running companion, the way a sustained tone can steady a rally. In quieter moments, the horn’s hum becomes a lullaby for the weary and a benediction for the fallen, a reminder that mercy travels as surely as marching boots. Prices drift through town like stories at market stalls, and Saddlebag Exchange is the kind of place where such tales start to travel between coins. I watched a trader arrange the horn on a cloth, its wood catching the light as if it were a fresh dawn. We spoke in careful whispers of value, restoration, and the subtle glow of adequacy. The price nodded with the weight of silver, sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on the relic’s breath and the caretaker’s touch. In such exchanges, the Cleric's Soft Wood Warhorn becomes more than an artifact; it becomes a link between memory and present danger, the lingering promise that mercy can be borrowed, then passed along to the next traveler who needs it most.