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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

"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.

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

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.

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."

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

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