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.

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.

The Iron Sky Leviathan drifts above the clouds, a titanic beast of scale and steel, its belly festooned with lights like constellations. Its song is a low, thunderous hum that lures lost airships to dock on its back, never to return. The Iron Sky Leviathan drifts above the clouds, a titanic beast of scale and steel, its belly festooned with lights like constellations. Its song is a low, thunderous hum that lures lost airships to dock on its back, never to return.

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.

Husk Hollow is a mining town chewed into the ribs of a red sandstone canyon. At sunset, the wind howls through empty streets, carrying the ghostly refrain of pickaxes striking stone. Locals say the gold veins ran dry the night the earth swallowed half the townsfolk whole—and spits out their whispers with every dust storm. Husk Hollow is a mining town chewed into the ribs of a red sandstone canyon. At sunset, the wind howls through empty streets, carrying the ghostly refrain of pickaxes striking stone. Locals say the gold veins ran dry the night the earth swallowed half the townsfolk whole—and spits out their whispers with every dust storm.