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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

A potion that contains the essence of Courage... In a way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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