Game Management Tools

Deep within the Umbral Warrens, the Echo Wolf prowls—its fur a roiling tapestry of shadows, eyes like coals plucked from the last fire of the world. It leaves no tracks, only a lingering echo of mournful howling that rattles in the bones of those who dare trespass. Some say to meet its gaze is to see every regret you’ve ever buried. Deep within the Umbral Warrens, the Echo Wolf prowls—its fur a roiling tapestry of shadows, eyes like coals plucked from the last fire of the world. It leaves no tracks, only a lingering echo of mournful howling that rattles in the bones of those who dare trespass. Some say to meet its gaze is to see every regret you’ve ever buried.

The Silent Menagerie is a collection of glass cages hidden beneath the palace, each holding a creature made of shadows, dreams, or vanished songs. When the torches gutter low, their shapes flicker and twist, and faint music drifts through the halls—reminding those above that not all treasures are meant to be seen. The Silent Menagerie is a collection of glass cages hidden beneath the palace, each holding a creature made of shadows, dreams, or vanished songs. When the torches gutter low, their shapes flicker and twist, and faint music drifts through the halls—reminding those above that not all treasures are meant to be seen.

Aveline Blackwater, sheriff of Dustwind, carries both badge and burden with a weathered hand. Her gaze is as cold and steady as the barrel of her rifle, and rumor has it she once stared down a tornado until it turned aside. In her presence, men and storms alike find themselves wanting. Aveline Blackwater, sheriff of Dustwind, carries both badge and burden with a weathered hand. Her gaze is as cold and steady as the barrel of her rifle, and rumor has it she once stared down a tornado until it turned aside. In her presence, men and storms alike find themselves wanting.

On the northern slopes, the bones of Tarsk the Mammoth King pierce the tundra like white spires. Each tusk hums with ancient magic, drawing lightning from stormy skies and summoning snow that never melts. Locals warn that, on nights when the aurora dances, the ground shakes with a slow, shuddering heartbeat. On the northern slopes, the bones of Tarsk the Mammoth King pierce the tundra like white spires. Each tusk hums with ancient magic, drawing lightning from stormy skies and summoning snow that never melts. Locals warn that, on nights when the aurora dances, the ground shakes with a slow, shuddering heartbeat.

In the Drowned Spires, fish glide through empty windows and coral blossoms where worshipers once knelt. At night, the bells ring without hands, tolling out over leagues of kelp forest, drawing lost sailors into watery dreams from which they never wake. In the Drowned Spires, fish glide through empty windows and coral blossoms where worshipers once knelt. At night, the bells ring without hands, tolling out over leagues of kelp forest, drawing lost sailors into watery dreams from which they never wake.