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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes, you just need to stash something away - some spare cash, a holdout weapon, your gender...

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

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.

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

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

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...

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

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

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.

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

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

"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."

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...

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