Game Management Tools

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.

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.

The Moonlit Carnival appears without warning at the edge of town, all striped tents and drifting laughter. Wagers are made with secrets and the prizes are impossible: a second shadow, a vial of yesterday’s tears, a map that shows only forgotten roads. At dawn, it is gone, leaving only footprints and the distant echo of a calliope. The Moonlit Carnival appears without warning at the edge of town, all striped tents and drifting laughter. Wagers are made with secrets and the prizes are impossible: a second shadow, a vial of yesterday’s tears, a map that shows only forgotten roads. At dawn, it is gone, leaving only footprints and the distant echo of a calliope.

Moghul the Unburied rises at dusk from a mound of scorched bones, his colossal frame bound by chains that rattle like distant thunder. His molten gaze boils the ground beneath his feet, and his laughter curdles blood. None who enter his lair beneath the shattered amphitheater do so twice, for his hunger is matched only by his hatred for the living. Moghul the Unburied rises at dusk from a mound of scorched bones, his colossal frame bound by chains that rattle like distant thunder. His molten gaze boils the ground beneath his feet, and his laughter curdles blood. None who enter his lair beneath the shattered amphitheater do so twice, for his hunger is matched only by his hatred for the living.

The Gilded Shrike, a flintlock pistol chased with gold and mother-of-pearl, fires silent bullets that leave neither wound nor blood but snatch the memory of a single name from the victim’s mind. Outlaws and lawmen alike covet it, though most cannot recall why they sought it once it leaves their hand. The Gilded Shrike, a flintlock pistol chased with gold and mother-of-pearl, fires silent bullets that leave neither wound nor blood but snatch the memory of a single name from the victim’s mind. Outlaws and lawmen alike covet it, though most cannot recall why they sought it once it leaves their hand.