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

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.

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...

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.

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

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.

A potion that contains the essence of Courage... In a way.

Prized for the metallic sheen of the foliage, this peculiar plant dwells on the banks of mountain rivers, relying on heavy metals and photoelectric power to spread itself

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

"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."

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