Game Management Tools

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.

The Moonlit Carnival appears without warning at the edge of town, all striped tents and drifting laughter. Wagers are made with secrets and the prizes are impossible: a second shadow, a vial of yesterday’s tears, a map that shows only forgotten roads. At dawn, it is gone, leaving only footprints and the distant echo of a calliope. The Moonlit Carnival appears without warning at the edge of town, all striped tents and drifting laughter. Wagers are made with secrets and the prizes are impossible: a second shadow, a vial of yesterday’s tears, a map that shows only forgotten roads. At dawn, it is gone, leaving only footprints and the distant echo of a calliope.

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.

Skarnroot, the living fossil, stalks the prehistoric marshlands on knuckled claws, its hide armored with slabs of mossy stone. It uproots trees with a grunt and feeds on volcanic springs, eyes glowing with a slow, ancient cunning that has outlasted epochs. Skarnroot, the living fossil, stalks the prehistoric marshlands on knuckled claws, its hide armored with slabs of mossy stone. It uproots trees with a grunt and feeds on volcanic springs, eyes glowing with a slow, ancient cunning that has outlasted epochs.

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.