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.

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

The corrupted god of war, felled by the lost god of vengeance to his present pitiable state.

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

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

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

Even at the best of times, goblins and alchemy don't mix well...

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.

'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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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."

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

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