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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

'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

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

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

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

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.

Gnomes, fascinated with magic, tried to find a way to safely access it, and instead wound up addicted in the deadliest way.

"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."

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.