"It was just after nightfall when it came; a horrible, rotten mass of bone and flesh, with a voice that was like a thousand screams braided together. I only survived because I ran - I ran and I've never stopped running, because I know it's after me. Me, and everyone else who was there when the city of Vesta was slaughtered." -Hans, Former Captain turned nomad
Descended from humanity, the orcs of Kuramen are a far cry from the bloodthirsty savages of many other worlds.
In the deep of night, even the most jaded of criminals will look over their shoulders for the telltale scarlet glow of the steamwalkers.
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 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.
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
Gnomes, fascinated with magic, tried to find a way to safely access it, and instead wound up addicted in the deadliest way.
The dead, when buried without last rites, often find it impossible to rest easy…
Adapted to the northern tundra, these hardy little insects dwell among the Fireleaf ferns…
This odd, fern-like plant taps into the power of fire to protect itself and prosper amid the cold northern tundra…
The Wizard-Brewers of the Old Empire stored memories in bottles of mead, passing their brightest ideas, most subtle magics, and most important decisions on to their heirs in bottles of oddly-flavored honey-wine. A cache of these ancient magical vintages has been unearthed, but does anyone dare drink from it? The ancient mead's creator is a complete mystery, as are the thoughts he left behind.