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

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.

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

"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."

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.

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

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

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

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

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

'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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

'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.'

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

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