Giver's Green Wood Warhorn rests in my palm, carved from a single emerald sapwood that seems to breathe when you tilt it. Its grain ripples like small leaves pressed into service, and the mouthpiece gleams with a pale, seashell sheen, dulled by travel but cool to the touch. Runes along the horn catch the light and flicker with a soft, secret glow, as if the wood itself remembers a time when gifts spoke louder than coin. A slender wire vine runs from tip to base, binding a tiny charm of green glass that catches the eye and the breath of anyone who closes their eyes to listen. It is said the horn came from a woodwright who wandered the edge of the Sorrow's Edge, a figure who mended tools and tended people in equal measure. The Giver, in legend, left behind not a ledger but a melody, a memory that links helping with song. When you raise it to your lips and blow, the air carries a green hint of renewal, and nearby allies seem to brace themselves for what’s to come. Beyond its look, the horn’s use feels like a handshake in battle—its blast clarifies a plan, marks a rally point, and nudges the group forward with shared purpose. In skirmishes and sieges it cuts through noise, inviting allies to tighten lines and quicken steps. It doesn’t simply buff; it narrates the fight, turning decisions into a chorus you can hear. Used at the right moment, it can shave seconds off a move, or guide a retreat back toward the safety of a torch-lit road. In the world’s larger story, the Giver's Green Wood Warhorn stands as a symbol of reciprocity—help given is help remembered, returned in kind by friend or fate. Collectors speak of a cycle: a horn gifted to a healer, a horn traded to a troupe, a horn kept as a reminder that generosity can shape a campaign as surely as any blade. Market day at the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders string stories as neatly as belts, the horn sits in a suede-lined case while eyes drift over its grain. Prices drift with rumor and season; one seller swears the green wood should fetch a tidy sum, another warns that scarcity can swing the value away. The ledger I hear spoken places a rough range of two to three gold coins, depending on the horn’s moisture, the glow of its runes, and the buyer’s intent. To hold it is to hear a promise and a future bound to the present with a quiet, leafy insistence. The Giver's Green Wood Warhorn is not only equipment; it is a story you wear, a call you leave behind in the field, and a reminder that, in battle, generosity can be the loudest call of all. If you listen closely in the quiet moments between marches, the horn’s green wood seems to answer with a softer wind, as if the forest itself approves the choice to give and to rally.