Game Management Tools

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 Paradox Sphere sits on a pedestal of tarnished copper, swirling with impossible colors that slide away from the mind’s eye. Scholars claim the artifact can unravel time itself, yet each study session erases the memory of the previous, leaving only feverish notes in unknown hands. The Paradox Sphere sits on a pedestal of tarnished copper, swirling with impossible colors that slide away from the mind’s eye. Scholars claim the artifact can unravel time itself, yet each study session erases the memory of the previous, leaving only feverish notes in unknown hands.

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.

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.

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.