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

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

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

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

"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."

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.

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...

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

'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.'

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

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

The product of centuries of slow, careful, painstaking work, a testament to the Old Ways and the power of Thaumaturgy, the Cathedral of Light is known of across the whole of Kuramen.

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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