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

'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...

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

The corrupted god of war, felled by the lost god of vengeance to his present pitiable state.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Descended from humanity, the orcs of Kuramen are a far cry from the bloodthirsty savages of many other worlds.

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

'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.'

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

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.