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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

'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.'

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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