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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

A legendary relic, suited to base a campaign around, with the power of Creation crystallized in a single milky seed...

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

'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.'

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

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

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

'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

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

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

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...

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.