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

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

Most weapons of legend are made in the days of legend; Nightfall is an exception, birthed in violence and vengeance.

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.

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.

'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

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.

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

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...

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

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

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

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.

'See that one, with the burn scars and dark veins? Don't stick too close; he shoots fireblood before engagements. Keeps friends and foes alike at bay, it does.'

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

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.

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

"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."

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