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

Carved to bring glory to the Patient One, the silent and frigid Abomination that holds dominion over the frozen wastes, the Glacier's Fist is heralded as a deadly weapon, but the true purpose of it is a much more subtle thing.

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...

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.

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

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

'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.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

"Though they walk as men and grow as weeds, they are neither; the angry dead, feeding the green with the rage until they walk again, yellowing bones bound by the twining green."

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