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

A small silver lantern, at whose heart there burns a shard of ice.

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

Squares of colorful cloth, often enchanted with minor magics to better serve the owner - but, first and foremost, it is merely a kerchief.

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.

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

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.

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

The leftover remnants of Mind can sometimes cling to existence when the Body fails and the Spirit departs...

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

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

But, O Fellow Denizens of the Citadel, I ask this - what other kinds of unique elements can you come up with?

A crossbow bolt crafted from the deepest shadows, which infects those struck with a terrible spiritual corruption.

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 simplest way to tell if someone is a Thaumatech Engineer is often to ask to see his kit bag...

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.

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

"It was as if, for a heartbeat, the world awoke, and lashed out in rage at those who disturbed it."

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.

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