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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

A set of pale white panpipes, etched with images of the winter storms...

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

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

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

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.

"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."

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