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

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

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

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

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

A nearly forgotten god of hatred, vengeance, death, and decay, whose priesthood seeks his violent rebirth.

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

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.

Forged from the light of the first dawn, of the world, it remains radiant even now, long ages after...

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.