Game Management Tools

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 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.

The Alabaster Oracle is a blindfolded child who sits at the heart of the ruined city, her hair drifting in a wind no one else can feel. She speaks only in riddles and palindromes, eyes glazed with visions of futures tangled like fishing nets. The Alabaster Oracle is a blindfolded child who sits at the heart of the ruined city, her hair drifting in a wind no one else can feel. She speaks only in riddles and palindromes, eyes glazed with visions of futures tangled like fishing nets.

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 Screeching Valley, the wind itself is alive—a banshee chorus shrieking between pillars of basalt. Travelers pack their ears with wax and carve runes into their boots, hoping to muffle the voices that promise glory and disaster in the same breath. In the Screeching Valley, the wind itself is alive—a banshee chorus shrieking between pillars of basalt. Travelers pack their ears with wax and carve runes into their boots, hoping to muffle the voices that promise glory and disaster in the same breath.