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

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

'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.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'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

Even at the best of times, goblins and alchemy don't mix well...

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

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

"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."

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...

"It was as if, for a heartbeat, the world awoke, and lashed out in rage at those who disturbed it."

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.

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