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

'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

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

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

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

'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.'

Once an outcast spirit of the cold, now the malevolent lord of a realm of winter unending...

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

The product of centuries of slow, careful, painstaking work, a testament to the Old Ways and the power of Thaumaturgy, the Cathedral of Light is known of across the whole of Kuramen.

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

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