Game Management Tools

A splintered ship hull, the Guttergull, rots in a salt marsh, crewed by barnacle-encrusted skeletons doomed to endless chores. Lanterns of captured fireflies bob along the rigging, illuminating maps etched on dried kelp. Their captain mutters to the tide, plotting a course for a harbor that hasn’t existed in centuries. A splintered ship hull, the Guttergull, rots in a salt marsh, crewed by barnacle-encrusted skeletons doomed to endless chores. Lanterns of captured fireflies bob along the rigging, illuminating maps etched on dried kelp. Their captain mutters to the tide, plotting a course for a harbor that hasn’t existed in centuries.

The Luminarch’s Prism is a scepter forged from meteorite and split by seven bands of shimmering light. When wielded, it fractures the air with cascading rainbows that sear the eyes and soul. Legends claim a single incantation can turn day to night or split mountains, but only if sung in harmony with one’s truest regret. The Luminarch’s Prism is a scepter forged from meteorite and split by seven bands of shimmering light. When wielded, it fractures the air with cascading rainbows that sear the eyes and soul. Legends claim a single incantation can turn day to night or split mountains, but only if sung in harmony with one’s truest regret.

The Bloodcairn Throne is a grotesque seat of stone, built atop a mound of skulls in the deepest crypt. Crimson moss creeps over its arms, and anyone foolish enough to sit feels the weight of every betrayal in their lineage, pressed cold and hard against the heart. The Bloodcairn Throne is a grotesque seat of stone, built atop a mound of skulls in the deepest crypt. Crimson moss creeps over its arms, and anyone foolish enough to sit feels the weight of every betrayal in their lineage, pressed cold and hard against the heart.

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 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.