Game Management Tools

The Bloodcairn Throne is a grotesque seat of stone, built atop a mound of skulls in the deepest crypt. Crimson moss creeps over its arms, and anyone foolish enough to sit feels the weight of every betrayal in their lineage, pressed cold and hard against the heart. The Bloodcairn Throne is a grotesque seat of stone, built atop a mound of skulls in the deepest crypt. Crimson moss creeps over its arms, and anyone foolish enough to sit feels the weight of every betrayal in their lineage, pressed cold and hard against the heart.

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.

Shyreene Driftwood stands at the helm of the Stolen Mercy, her sea-bleached hair tangled in a dozen charms and shark teeth. Her eyes are glass-green and glimmer with cunning, yet those who meet her gaze sense the hush of the deep—cold, fathomless, and ancient. It’s said she can smell mutiny brewing before the first whisper, and that her compass needle always points toward lost fortunes—or coming storms. Shyreene Driftwood stands at the helm of the Stolen Mercy, her sea-bleached hair tangled in a dozen charms and shark teeth. Her eyes are glass-green and glimmer with cunning, yet those who meet her gaze sense the hush of the deep—cold, fathomless, and ancient. It’s said she can smell mutiny brewing before the first whisper, and that her compass needle always points toward lost fortunes—or coming storms.

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 Emberlash is a whip braided from the sinew of salamanders and tipped with ever-burning coals. When cracked through the air, it leaves a shimmering trail of heat that scars stone and terrifies shadows. Rumors whisper that each blow sears a fragment of memory from both wielder and victim, stitching them together in a tapestry of pain and power. The Emberlash is a whip braided from the sinew of salamanders and tipped with ever-burning coals. When cracked through the air, it leaves a shimmering trail of heat that scars stone and terrifies shadows. Rumors whisper that each blow sears a fragment of memory from both wielder and victim, stitching them together in a tapestry of pain and power.