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.
Carelessly tossed aside in the middle of some forgotten tomb, this breastplate has survived the rigours of age perfectly. It’s obviously extremely valuable, but it possesses a dark secret.
In the far reaches of a long-lost wilderness, there stands a forgotten town inhabited only by children. Though they appear normal enough, their eyes burn with madness, and they speak in a foreign, archaic tongue. Nearly a millenia ago, a powerful spell had gone awry, or maybe it had succeeded - in any case, it ended up blessing, or cursing, an entire generation of children with agelessness. However, as the centuries passed, the children's parents grew old and died, the buildings of the town crumbled to earth, and even the civilization itself faded into history, becoming lost to time. All that remained were the children, driven mad by the psychological toll of living for hundreds of years beyond their age. In time, most children died, killed off by fighting amongst themselves, while many others were driven to suicide. Only a small handful remain, and they are a strange people indeed.
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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.