Born half in legend, half in cold science, Lightning's Voice is a carrier of divine wrath in an age without faith.

Sturdy goggles with thick green lenses, and wires that lead to a battery of thaumic energy.

'See that one, with the burn scars and dark veins? Don't stick too close; he shoots fireblood before engagements. Keeps friends and foes alike at bay, it does.'

A potion that contains the essence of Courage... In a way.

Odd little devices, almost ubiquitous in any city which relies on thaumatechnology.

Thaumatechnology - in a world where straight magic has an unnerving tendency to get the user killed, either by magical catastrophe or by being lynched by an upset mob, this is a much safer form of magical use... Even if it does occasionally explode.

A legendary relic, suited to base a campaign around, with the power of Creation crystallized in a single milky seed...

Gnomes, fascinated with magic, tried to find a way to safely access it, and instead wound up addicted in the deadliest way.

"My god, what is that?"
"Orcweed, sir. Never need a wall with this growing."

The corrupted god of war, felled by the lost god of vengeance to his present pitiable state.

Descended from humanity, the orcs of Kuramen are a far cry from the bloodthirsty savages of many other worlds.

A set of pale white panpipes, etched with images of the winter storms...

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.

Driven by the need to keep his descendants fed, Daniel Andersson is one of the more peculiar undead - and gods - one might ever come across.

Forged from the light of the first dawn, of the world, it remains radiant even now, long ages after...

Sometimes, you just need to stash something away - some spare cash, a holdout weapon, your gender...

This odd, fern-like plant taps into the power of fire to protect itself and prosper amid the cold northern tundra...

The dead, imbued with the divine essence of magic, walk again, ever hungry for the missing spark of a living soul.

Slain by thirst and heat, these sad souls seek moisture - any moisture - to quench their eternal, burning thirst.

A mystic, tired of being left behind by his more swifted-footed companions, devised this as a simple solution.