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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

The simplest way to tell if someone is a Thaumatech Engineer is often to ask to see his kit bag...

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.

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

'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

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.

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

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

Sometimes, you just need to stash something away - some spare cash, a holdout weapon, your gender...

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

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

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

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