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.

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

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

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

'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.'

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'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