Game Management Tools

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.

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 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.

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.

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.