Honed Soft Wood Warhorn of Fire gleams with a patient amber sheen, its surface a tapestry of fine rings and lacquered grain that tells a story of forest journeys. The horn’s body is pale, worn smooth where fingers have learned its rhythm, edges rounded by years of practice. A narrow band of ember-red lacquer threads along the middle, and within its core you can glimpse a faint, living glow that breathes whenever the wood is warmed by breath or sun. Tiny sigils are carved along the horn’s length—crisscrossed sparks, a curling flame, a small leaf that catches light and never fades—lore as ornament, whispered by traders who know many pieces were made where caravans paused beside a smoke-simmering forge. To hold it is to feel the wood hum, as if a winter ember woke inside, ready to answer a whispered command. When blown, the horn sends a sharp note through the air, followed by a warmer undertone that settles upon allies like a sun-warm breeze. In skirmishes it serves as a summons, a beacon that draws the scattered to regroup, and a channel for the horn’s ember magic that buffs morale and quickens the pulse of those who fight beside you. Some say the horn stores a memory of a long-forgotten flame-keeper—the sort who traded truth for kindling—and that memory lends courage to any who listen. Others hear only music and steam, but those who listen long enough feel the battlefield tilt toward a brighter tempo. Battlefield lore links this item to caravan lore: a vendor’s whisper in a desert town, a flame-lit night when a smith’s apprentice coaxed heat from wood without scorching it. Its power is rhythm and timing, the kind that makes a squad coordinate dashes between barricades and storm-touched walls. Use it to rally a weary line, trigger a sudden burst of vigor, or cue coordinated pushes that turn a stalemate into momentum. The horn’s warmth invites trust among strangers and makes veterans nod at the unspoken contract: we move as one or we fall. Price talk slides into conversation as players shuffle coins and trade stories. In bustling markets—doors and stalls opening onto spilled light—I have watched merchants debate the horn’s worth, the argument framed by the waggle of a scale and the clink of coins. Saddlebag Exchange has become my yardstick for such things, a place where you overhear the arithmetic of risk and reputation. A price tag appears, then disappears, replaced by a newer tale of whom the horn found this week and where its glow settled. It’s not just metal and wood; it’s barter, memory, and trust braided into a single, singing instrument. Back at the campfire that night, the Honed Soft Wood Warhorn of Fire rested between cups and cracked leather, its glow brightening the faces around it. A single breath, a shared shout, and the horn carried more than warmth; it carried a promise—that in danger, a chorus can rise from wood and ember to carry us home again together.