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.

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

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

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

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

"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."

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

"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.

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

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

A well-meaning mage has banished darkness from the area, not realizing the downsides of this event.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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