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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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 leftover remnants of Mind can sometimes cling to existence when the Body fails and the Spirit departs...

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

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

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

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

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

'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

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.

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.

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

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

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.