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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

"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."

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

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

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

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.

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.

A well-meaning mage has banished darkness from the area, not realizing the downsides of this event.

Driven by the need to keep his descendants fed, Daniel Andersson is one of the more peculiar undead - and gods - one might ever come across.

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.

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

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