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

'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.'

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

A legendary relic, suited to base a campaign around, with the power of Creation crystallized in a single milky seed...

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

In the deep of night, even the most jaded of criminals will look over their shoulders for the telltale scarlet glow of the steamwalkers.

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...

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.

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

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