The dead, imbued with the divine essence of magic, walk again, ever hungry for the missing spark of a living soul.
Loathsome creatures born of magic gone hideously awry, the trolls of Kuramen are little more than ever-hungry masses of cancerous tissue.
"Though they walk as men and grow as weeds, they are neither; the angry dead, feeding the green with the rage until they walk again, yellowing bones bound by the twining green."
Pitiable creatures, wandering forever in search of that denied them, unable to rest even as they crumble away to little more than crawling wrecks of bones.
"My god, what is that?"
"Orcweed, sir. Never need a wall with this growing."
The races of Kuramen are a strange lot, descending down a long lineage from the First Race; prone to dramatic evolutions and born to a world divided, each does the best it can to survive.
The leftover remnants of Mind can sometimes cling to existence when the Body fails and the Spirit departs…
Slain by thirst and heat, these sad souls seek moisture - any moisture - to quench their eternal, burning thirst.
The simplest way to tell if someone is a Thaumatech Engineer is often to ask to see his kit bag…
A curious dagger, with a blade stained by ancient gore; it has seen many dark deeds, yet goes unsuspected as more than some old piece of junk.
Once merely a minor Realm of an ambitious Prince of the Nether, the Gloom has been conquered and now lies ruled by Winter’s cruel grip.
A set of pale white panpipes, etched with images of the winter storms…
A small silver lantern, at whose heart there burns a shard of ice.
At first appearing to be glass, this ring of enchanted ice is a boon to those in wintery climes…
Once an outcast spirit of the cold, now the malevolent lord of a realm of winter unending…
Carved to bring glory to the Patient One, the silent and frigid Abomination that holds dominion over the frozen wastes, the Glacier’s Fist is heralded as a deadly weapon, but the true purpose of it is a much more subtle thing.
Squares of colorful cloth, often enchanted with minor magics to better serve the owner - but, first and foremost, it is merely a kerchief.
Prized for the metallic sheen of the foliage, this peculiar plant dwells on the banks of mountain rivers, relying on heavy metals and photoelectric power to spread itself
Combining the stopping power of a gauss weapon, the energy of antimatter, and an unfortunate acronym, the EAR-5 is a potent weapon for both starship combat and pun warfare.
Born half in legend, half in cold science, Lightning’s Voice is a carrier of divine wrath in an age without faith.
As the PCs travel the road, right after a bend they hear a sharp whistle and call: "Heeey, not so lazy, move your asses!" It is a large man that calls, and there are unwilling workers that listen. A small company, 10-15 men work on the road, push boulders aside, dig up roots from under the road, etc. The large man that shouted turns to you, smiles fast and mutters something under his breath, sounds like cursing some lazy worker. "Where does the road bring you from, travellers?" And does a little small-talk.
And what is really happening? A group of bandits is 'adapting' the road for shady purposes. The road will not be wider, but tighter, with enough cover around (and a few traps perhaps), and will become an ideal spot for ambushing travellers or entire caravans. The bandit leader wants them all to appear harmless. The 'lazy worker' he cursed was actually a guard that should give warning before any travellers come around (fallen asleep). Not surprisingly, the boss may decide for an ambush even now.