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

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.

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

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

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

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

Carved to bring glory to the Patient One, the silent and frigid Abomination that holds dominion over the frozen wastes, the Glacier's Fist is heralded as a deadly weapon, but the true purpose of it is a much more subtle thing.

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

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

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

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

"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."

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

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

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.

Adapted to the northern tundra, these hardy little insects dwell among the Fireleaf ferns...

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.

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.

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

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.