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

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

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

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.

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

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...

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

"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."

'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.'

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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...

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