Game Management Tools

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.

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.

Deep within the Umbral Warrens, the Echo Wolf prowls—its fur a roiling tapestry of shadows, eyes like coals plucked from the last fire of the world. It leaves no tracks, only a lingering echo of mournful howling that rattles in the bones of those who dare trespass. Some say to meet its gaze is to see every regret you’ve ever buried. Deep within the Umbral Warrens, the Echo Wolf prowls—its fur a roiling tapestry of shadows, eyes like coals plucked from the last fire of the world. It leaves no tracks, only a lingering echo of mournful howling that rattles in the bones of those who dare trespass. Some say to meet its gaze is to see every regret you’ve ever buried.

The Paradox Sphere sits on a pedestal of tarnished copper, swirling with impossible colors that slide away from the mind’s eye. Scholars claim the artifact can unravel time itself, yet each study session erases the memory of the previous, leaving only feverish notes in unknown hands. The Paradox Sphere sits on a pedestal of tarnished copper, swirling with impossible colors that slide away from the mind’s eye. Scholars claim the artifact can unravel time itself, yet each study session erases the memory of the previous, leaving only feverish notes in unknown hands.

Perched atop rusted stilts at the edge of the Dreadmire, the Crooked Lantern Inn sways with the sigh of every midnight breeze. Lanterns of green witchfire hang from the eaves, casting odd shadows that sometimes blink or slither. The innkeeper, a broad-shouldered woman with a jaw set like an anchor, never asks your name, and guests sometimes leave a little lighter—sometimes in pocket, sometimes in soul. Perched atop rusted stilts at the edge of the Dreadmire, the Crooked Lantern Inn sways with the sigh of every midnight breeze. Lanterns of green witchfire hang from the eaves, casting odd shadows that sometimes blink or slither. The innkeeper, a broad-shouldered woman with a jaw set like an anchor, never asks your name, and guests sometimes leave a little lighter—sometimes in pocket, sometimes in soul.