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

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

In the deep of night, even the most jaded of criminals will look over their shoulders for the telltale scarlet glow of the steamwalkers.

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

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.

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...

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

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

At first appearing to be glass, this ring of enchanted ice is a boon to those in wintery climes...

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

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 races of Kuramen are a strange lot, descending down a long lineage from the First Race; prone to dramatic evolutions and born to a world divided, each does the best it can to survive.

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

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

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.

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

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

Even at the best of times, goblins and alchemy don't mix well...

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