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

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

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

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

A small silver lantern, at whose heart there burns a shard of ice.

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.

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.

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

'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 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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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