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

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.

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

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

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.

'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.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'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

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

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

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