The dead, when buried without last rites, often find it impossible to rest easy...

A nearly forgotten god of hatred, vengeance, death, and decay, whose priesthood seeks his violent rebirth.

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

Some people have neither good nor bad luck; they instead have a certain whimsy of fate attached to them, placing them at the center of bizarre events whether they wish it or not. Joseph Random is one such individual...

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

'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.'

'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

Most weapons of legend are made in the days of legend; Nightfall is an exception, birthed in violence and vengeance.

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

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.

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

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

A well-meaning mage has banished darkness from the area, not realizing the downsides of this event.

Adapted to the northern tundra, these hardy little insects dwell among the Fireleaf ferns...

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

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

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

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

An ocean of fine silt, shot through with pillars and islands of ancient stone, this realm would be a thing of harsh beauty were it not for the utterly lifeless nature of it.