'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

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

'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.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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