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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

A potion that contains the essence of Courage... In a 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

'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