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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

'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

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

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.

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...

"It was as if, for a heartbeat, the world awoke, and lashed out in rage at those who disturbed it."

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

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

'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.'

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

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