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

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

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

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.

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

"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."

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.

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

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...

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

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

But, O Fellow Denizens of the Citadel, I ask this - what other kinds of unique elements can you come up with?

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

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.

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.

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

'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

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

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