The Outpost World of Tydor, shrouded in its cloak of mists and silence. Once people lived here, but no more, and not a clue to where they went.
A wretched entity of the frozen lands, the WinterKill is the remnant of a mortal left to die in despair and endless cold.
Where the ships float, empty, and the ocean lay wide and empty, where the northern lights shine and the winds chill live the Gesthari. Wraithlike predators who ride the storms.
The counter to the effects of the Barrenfield Oaks. It converts sunlight into the ingredients necessary for a healthy soil.
This is an acorn of mass destruction. It’s stored in a small box with room for six but only containing the one.
The wristbands look ordinary. Sure, they may be a couple centuries old, but they weren’t iron. They were another, magical metal, and they were strong enough to stop even the biggest sword, if you’re fast enough. But they also draw the attention of another, who will hound you to your grave.
The leather has held out nicely over the years, of course, it’s magical. And their surefootedness is quite remarkable. Pity everyone thinks you’re daft for wearing them.
A slightly worn looking, and rather thin book. Its cover is red, but also holds some inset jewels, and the words “Eventful Evenings with Magic” written on the cover in gold leaf. While not a misnomer, it is interestingly deceptive.
This small orb, perfectly spherical, a deep, but transparent red, and very reminiscent of a standard marble, but also holds and imp who can also speak to the mind of whoever holds it. It is one of a set.
A tribal society which lives on the harsh Northern Plains consider it dishonourable to slay an enemy without looking it full in the face. Any missile weapon is treated with derision and contempt, while rangers and other archers are denied entrance to the tribal villages.