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

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

Some people have neither good nor bad luck; they instead have a certain whimsy of fate attached to them, placing them at the center of bizarre events whether they wish it or not. Joseph Random is one such individual...

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

A mystic, tired of being left behind by his more swifted-footed companions, devised this as a simple solution.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

"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."

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