Game Management Tools

A splintered ship hull, the Guttergull, rots in a salt marsh, crewed by barnacle-encrusted skeletons doomed to endless chores. Lanterns of captured fireflies bob along the rigging, illuminating maps etched on dried kelp. Their captain mutters to the tide, plotting a course for a harbor that hasn’t existed in centuries. A splintered ship hull, the Guttergull, rots in a salt marsh, crewed by barnacle-encrusted skeletons doomed to endless chores. Lanterns of captured fireflies bob along the rigging, illuminating maps etched on dried kelp. Their captain mutters to the tide, plotting a course for a harbor that hasn’t existed in centuries.

Perched atop rusted stilts at the edge of the Dreadmire, the Crooked Lantern Inn sways with the sigh of every midnight breeze. Lanterns of green witchfire hang from the eaves, casting odd shadows that sometimes blink or slither. The innkeeper, a broad-shouldered woman with a jaw set like an anchor, never asks your name, and guests sometimes leave a little lighter—sometimes in pocket, sometimes in soul. Perched atop rusted stilts at the edge of the Dreadmire, the Crooked Lantern Inn sways with the sigh of every midnight breeze. Lanterns of green witchfire hang from the eaves, casting odd shadows that sometimes blink or slither. The innkeeper, a broad-shouldered woman with a jaw set like an anchor, never asks your name, and guests sometimes leave a little lighter—sometimes in pocket, sometimes in soul.

Jasper Nail, gambler and confidence man, flashes a smile as sharp as a snake’s fang and never loses at cards. His lucky silver coin—always spinning, never settling—has a habit of vanishing into thin air when lawmen come calling. No one knows where he came from, but every saloon has a tale about his last, impossible escape. Jasper Nail, gambler and confidence man, flashes a smile as sharp as a snake’s fang and never loses at cards. His lucky silver coin—always spinning, never settling—has a habit of vanishing into thin air when lawmen come calling. No one knows where he came from, but every saloon has a tale about his last, impossible escape.

The Scrimshaw Oracle is a weathered walrus tusk etched in spirals and scenes from a hundred forgotten lives. When pressed to the ear, it whispers prophecies in the voices of drowned sailors, promising both doom and salvation in the next tide. The Scrimshaw Oracle is a weathered walrus tusk etched in spirals and scenes from a hundred forgotten lives. When pressed to the ear, it whispers prophecies in the voices of drowned sailors, promising both doom and salvation in the next tide.

The Greenstar Caravan rumbles through the interstellar wastes, painted in shifting hues and trailing clouds of sweet incense. Its inhabitants wear kaleidoscopic cloaks and speak in riddles, trading in curiosities: bottled sunbeams, frozen laughter, dreams pressed into amber. The Greenstar Caravan rumbles through the interstellar wastes, painted in shifting hues and trailing clouds of sweet incense. Its inhabitants wear kaleidoscopic cloaks and speak in riddles, trading in curiosities: bottled sunbeams, frozen laughter, dreams pressed into amber.