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...

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

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

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

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

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

'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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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