Game Management Tools

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.

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.

Mist gathers nightly in the Spindlewood, rising between ancient trunks twisted into cathedral spires. Here, time moves oddly, and stepping off the path might send a wanderer tumbling into decades or dreams. The forest’s dryads are draped in veils of spider silk and speak in riddles only the moon remembers. Mist gathers nightly in the Spindlewood, rising between ancient trunks twisted into cathedral spires. Here, time moves oddly, and stepping off the path might send a wanderer tumbling into decades or dreams. The forest’s dryads are draped in veils of spider silk and speak in riddles only the moon remembers.

Aveline Blackwater, sheriff of Dustwind, carries both badge and burden with a weathered hand. Her gaze is as cold and steady as the barrel of her rifle, and rumor has it she once stared down a tornado until it turned aside. In her presence, men and storms alike find themselves wanting. Aveline Blackwater, sheriff of Dustwind, carries both badge and burden with a weathered hand. Her gaze is as cold and steady as the barrel of her rifle, and rumor has it she once stared down a tornado until it turned aside. In her presence, men and storms alike find themselves wanting.

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.