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

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

Gnomes, fascinated with magic, tried to find a way to safely access it, and instead wound up addicted in the deadliest way.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

'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.'

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

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

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...

"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."

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

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

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

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.

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