The Feywild (sometimes known as the Plane of Faerie) is a verdant, wild twin of the mortal realm. Towering forests sprawl for a thousand leagues. Perfect amber prairies roll between pristine mountain peaks soaring into the flawless clouds. Emerald, turquoise, and jade green seas crash along endless beaches. The skies are a perfect blue not seen in the mortal world—until storms come, coal dark thunderheads boiling with fierce winds and torrential rains. In this world, arcane power thrums through every tree and rock. All existence is magical.

The creatures native to the Feywild—the enigmatic eladrin, the vicious hags, the wild dryads, and the tyrannical fomorians—are all charged with the mystic energy of this plane. Some are blessed by it, and some are warped. Like the land around them, the fey who inhabit this plane run to extremes. Good fey are noble and just, protectors of the natural world and those mortals they choose to show favor to. Evil fey are dark instinct unleashed, all blood and claw and rage. The creatures of the Feywild can be kind, cruel, noble, monstrous, and savage—often all at the same time.

Some eladrin sages claim that the Feywild is the dream of the natural world itself. The Feywild is in many ways indistinguishable from the natural world. However, like a dream, the Feywild is a dangerous, vibrant reflection of the familiar. The geography of the Feywild parallels that of the mortal realm, if loosely. Various mountains, rivers, and seas on the natural world are found on the Feywild. However, the distances between landmarks in the Feywild—and the landmarks themselves—are often distorted.

Mortals come to this perilous realm to tap into the arcane powers that course like unseen rivers of magic through the wild landscape. Some wish to negotiate secret knowledge from the eladrin; some battle fey who inflict their capricious cruelties on innocents in the mortal world. Others seek to plunder magic artifacts still buried in the wreckage of crystal cities abandoned by the eladrin during the war with the drow. The dizzying forests, storm-kissed seas, and cloud-sheathed granite peaks of the Feywild hold countless mysteries for those with both the courage and cunning to survive.

Reaching the Feywild

The Feywild is unique in that it is the only plane commonly reached by accident. In the wild places of the world fey crossings—points where the barrier between the Feywild and the mortal world is thin -lie sleeping in hidden glades or brood under mistwreathed hills. More than a few mortals have strayed into fey crossings on the wrong day of the year or at the wrong moment of the day only to find themselves stranded in the world of the fey.

Over the centuries, the eladrin (and others) improved many naturally occurring fey crossings to create a number of reliable portals between the Feywild and the world. Such portals are marked by ancient standing stones, knee-high obelisks covered in ancient runes, groves of trees planted in a deliberate arrangement, or even circles of toadstools. Some fey crossings are as small as a single narrow archway between two menhirs, and others are sylvan glades the size of cities. Many of these sites have been abandoned. Their magic only slumbers deeply, waking when conditions are right or when ancient elven words of passage coax them to life.

Fey crossings can normally be activated one of two ways: a key phrase coded to that particular crossing point or the use of the Fey Passage ritual. As befits their connection to such a wild plane, some portals activate randomly or when certain specific conditions are met, such as when the right lunar phase occurs or the sun hits a certain angle through just the right trees. When a fey crossing activates through random or through rare but normal occurrences, creatures often pass through these open portals without even noticing the transition to the Feywild. A few fey crossings remain permanently open. These occur in the deepest forests of the world, places where the mortal world and the Feywild achieve the greatest harmonic convergence.

Fey crossings in the mortal world are surrounded in local legends. Old stories warn that encounters with fey are fraught with peril. People who wander into the Feywild return changed, and some never return at all. For alert adventurers, such tales are clues to a long-lost passage to the wondrous, savage world of the fey. A forest with a reputation for locals disappearing in it may indeed be home to savage beasts—or perhaps folks who walk between two twin trees atop a hill deep in the woods at moonrise leave one world for the next.

The second method of travel across to the Feywild is through a worldfall. Worldfall occurs when the ebb and flow of planar energy allows a huge tract of land from one plane to shift to the other. Eladrin cities often “ride” worldfalls, suddenly appearing in the mortal world in a flash of sunlight and scattered flowers. To travel to the Feywild, all a traveler need do is enter the gates of such an eladrin city while it rests in the mortal plane and then wait within until the city returns to the Feywild.

Each worldfall is different. An eladrin city may appear regular as clockwork or once a century. The city of Shinaelestra shifts into the world every midnight, replacing a glade deep in the Howling Forest, then shifts back to the Feywild just before dawn. The towers of Astrazalian remain on the hillsides of a fair green island all spring and summer, fading into the Feywild with the coming of autumn and winter.


The crystal stone towers of the City of Starlight sparkle like the wide sea that surrounds the island’s emerald slopes, like the coins and gems that trade hands on its winding streets, like the stars that are the city’s namesake. In spring and summer, this city you call home occupies an island in the natural world. It is the crown jewel of the eladrin realms, the incarnate dream and the envy of every mortal race. As an inhabitant of Astrazalian, you are surrounded by affluence, diversity, and trade. You might be a merchant with the Star and Dolphin Coster, a warrior in service of Lady Shandria (niece of the Summer Queen and ruler of Astrazalian), or a student of magic at the oldest and most prestigious school of wizardry in the planes. If you have lived in Astrazalian for any amount of time, you cannot help but feel overwhelming pride when you look to the city’s banners high among the clouds, the graceful swan boats in her harbor, and the bountiful magic that brings luxurious conveniences to every citizen. Perhaps other grand cities exist, but if there is one more perfect, richer with opportunity and diversity, you have never seen its like.

Yet for all Astrazalian’s qualities, it is nearly impossible for you to attain significant power here. The ancient noble houses hold fast to their positions, as they have done for time out of mind. Your custom is to treat others with courtesy and respect, even if the honeyed words (yours or theirs) are false. You cannot tell who might rise to power or when, and it is good to have as many “friends” as possible when opportunities present themselves. You recognize the arrogant deceits that corrupt the veins of your home, though when you go abroad amid crude mortals, Astrazalian’s legendary civility and grace never stray far from your heart.

You know a few mortals, but you rarely know them well. At the end of summer, they pack up their families and stalls and leave your beautiful city before it makes worldfall back to the Feywild. All through the autumn and winter, savage fomorians besiege Astrazalian from their Feydark borderlands in hopes of plundering the city and using it as a base from which to raid the natural world. The City of Starlight is lean and grim during these annual periods of war, and you are accustomed to enduring the giants or fighting them on the battlefield.

Brokenstone Vale

Deep in the shadows of a mountain pass lies Brokenstone Vale, a haven for werebeasts and shapechangers that was conceded to them by the eladrin after years of brutal warfare. According to an ancient pact between the shape changers and the Court of Stars, no creature can set foot in Brokenstone Vale without the lycanthropes’ permission. If any careless traveler does so, his life is as good as forfeit. This pact also works the other way; lycanthropes that hunt beyond the vale can be slain by the Maiden of the Moon, an archfey who keeps her wary eye on them.

You come from the forested mountains above Brokenstone. By day, you hunt in the woods, farm the lower mountain slopes, or practice your trade. In their humanoid forms, the lycanthropes can be useful (if intimidating) trading partners, and many seem good-natured and genuine. However, others eye you when you pass by as if you were nothing more than a potential meal. It is the cries of these predators that seem the strongest when the vale fills with a chorus of feral howls beneath the light of the moon. During these times when the monsters are on the hunt, painting a silver stripe across the door to your dwelling tells the shapechangers that you have silver and the protection of the Maiden of the Moon. Even the most bloodthirsty of their kind heed the sign of the stripe.

You also know that the lycanthropes will not touch the wolfsbane that grows on the slopes of Brokenstone Vale. It is said that a touch of the plant, when properly applied, transforms a werecreature into its humanoid form and prevents it from changing again until the next moon rises. Displaying wolfsbane around your dwelling usually deters lycanthropes, but use of the plant can enrage them and single you out as a target. Wolfsbane is often dangerous to obtain because aside from its toxic nature, hags and witches collect the plant for use in their charms and spells. These creatures flit like black shadows across the face of the moon while the terrible howls fill the night from below.


In the midst of a dark, twisted forest as old as the world stands the abandoned city of Cendriane, its crystal towers rising through the treetops like polished skeletal fingers emerging from the earth. The city’s desolate streets sprawl through the wood, creating a unique harmony between nature and the ruins of civilization.

Natives of the forest surrounding Cendriane believe that this place, once the most radiant of eladrin realms, is cursed. Ages ago, the longest battle of the bloody war between the eladrin and the drow took place here, and ever since, Cendriane has known no birdsong, no signs of life, nothing but the pall of silence surrounding the city’s perfectly preserved architecture. Giant spiders, displacer beasts, and owlbears make their lairs in mansions where noble eladrin once dwelled, and sometimes by night terrifying specters drift through the streets.

During your time on the outskirts, you have accumulated a variety of lore regarding the city within the wood. One rumor suggests that the elders of your settlement belong to an order that is dedicated to preventing outsiders from entering the ruined metropolis. Another story claims that the elders are charged with keeping something dangerous contained within the dark forest.

Outlaws and exiles eke out solitary lives in the wood, but they rarely last long. Eventually, rumors of fabulous wealth still unclaimed in Cendriane reach their ears, and they go out in search of ancient libraries stocked with eldritch scrolls and treasure maps, or they try to find vaults hidden beneath the city that are said to be filled with gold and magic. Such explorers seldom return.

Fomorian Cities

Across the enchanted surface of the Feywild, fair eladrin cities glitter like bright jewels in the Summer Queen’s crown. Deep beneath the fey realms, in subterranean caverns vast beyond imagining, the warped reflections of fey civilization glimmer like evil eyes glaring hatefully upward.

Three of these domains are fomorian cities: Harrowhame, Mag Tureah, and Vor Thomil. Each is ruled by a ruthless giant that has become twisted in body and mind as the result of wielding staggering arcane power. As a humanoid subject of one of these cities, you were captured to serve as a slave or born to enslaved parents; at best, you bore the title of servant or herald, though the distinction is purely academic.

No matter which fomorian city you came from, you knew only misery and peril beneath the fist of its warped tyrant. In Harrowhame, you mined tunnels or dug for precious gems in narrow Feydark channels where toxic gases brought silent death and dangerous monsters made their lairs. In Mag Tureah, you were employed as expendable infantry in bloody skirmishes against legions of myconids and vicious drow. In Vor Thomil, King Cachlain’s court, you served as a gladiator, a court entertainer, or an object of street sport hardly expected to survive a day in the Feydark. Of all your city’s terrified inmates, only the gnomes, who had endured captivity under fomorian rule for time out of mind, could find wonder in the dismal circumstances. Their optimism called to mind the old gnome saying, “There are diamonds, too, in the darkness.” Despite their miserable lives, few try to leave these nightmare tunnels. Attempted escape is punished by a brutal death beneath the blades of vicious spriggans and quicklings.

The Isle of Dread

Somewhere above the coral kingdoms of the Sea Lords rises a tropical island ringed with treacherous reefs and storm-tossed seas. The sands of its beaches are as dark as the jagged obsidian mountains in its center or the plumes of smoke spewing from its volcanoes, and its coasts are littered with the wreckage of ships. Sinister stone ziggurats break the canopy of verdant jungles blanketed in clouds of steam. Unseen beneath the dense foliage, enormous reptiles of the primeval world hold sway.

The Isle of Dread is also the home of the dreaded su monsters, dangerous treetop predators created by the wizard Halkith. Su monsters use their psychic link to monitor events that transpire on the island, including keeping tabs on the island’s population of yuan-ti.

If you come from the Isle of Dread, you managed to stay alive in an environment determined to kill you. The island constantly shifts from the Feywild to the natural world at random, possibly at different points in the ocean of time. Ships from diverse historical eras and dimensions are battered to ruin upon its shores, and before the surviving castaways can be rescued, the island goes through another worldfall, pulling them to yet another time and place.

The Isle of Dread tests every person it pulls to its shores. Few live long enough to escape or be rescued. Friends betray one another for survival, a chance to leave the island, or leadership of the tribe. Those who survive together-even if they come to hate one another-are forever bound; no other living being can understand their shared experience.

Maze of Fathaghn

There is a place in the Feywild where the trees grow close together and the twisting brambles are as tall and thick as living walls. Here the trees speak their secrets in the faint whisper of rustling leaves. The woodland path loses its way among shifting copses and the trunks of wandering treants, and playful nymphs and dryads lure unwary travelers along twisting detours to shady glades from which they will never emerge.

If you come from the outskirts of this perilous woodland labyrinth, you are almost certainly a fey creature, since few other humanoids can survive here for long. As enchanting and abundant as the Maze of Fathaghn might seem, it is no less a stronghold than Mithrendain, Mag Tureah, or the Fortress of Frozen Tears. The treants, dryads, nymphs, gnomes, pixies, and other fey denizens of this place might appear whimsical or harmless, but each is dedicated to safeguarding the secrets at the center of the maze, where it is said that the dryad queen Fathaghn protects the great Mother Tree that gave life to the first Green Fey. As a fey inhabitant of the maze, you spend your time at play, in harmony with nature. However, when necessary, you frighten intruders away or lure them to their deaths in the maze. Legends warn that if a trespasser were to destroy the Mother Tree, your lives too would come to an end-or, worse yet, the Feywild would lose all its magic and become as ordinary as the mortal world.


Growing from the forest floor like a copse of towering trees, the fortress city of Mithrendain glints with copper, bronze, and gold in the amber rays of fey sunlight. Here, time drifts by as gradually as the first tentative falling leaves of autumn.

As an inhabitant of the Autumn City, you are accustomed to the slow passage of time. Mithrendain has no clocks, sundials, or magic timepieces, and you live your life as if ageless, basking eternally in the golden afternoon. In the light that glimmers through the russet boughs above, your people work toward the slow perfection of everything they touch. In a city without time, there is no hurry, no project left forever incomplete or abandoned, and no sense of early, late, or never. You consider it rude to place expectations on timeliness except in the most dire circumstances, such as war or invasion, and this attitude frustrates alienated mortals-especially impatient humans.

The results of the Mithrendain perspective show in the sheer artistic perfection that surrounds you at every natural angle. As a resident of the Autumn City, you have grown accustomed to this point of view, regardless of whether you embrace it, and you appreciate any task that is carefully and flawlessly executed.

A legend told in Mithrendain speaks of an age when time moved more quickly. In fact, it moved so quickly that it formed a wide, deep hole in the Feywild from which issued fomorians, draw, and all the evils of the Feydark underworld. According to the tale, seven eladrin wizards placed seven powerful seals on the hole and built a brooding fortress around the maw, in the spot where the golden Citadel Arcanum stands today. Then this council of wizards banished time from Mithrendain so their wards might remain ever new, thrumming with the magic that courses through every leaf, rock, and timber of the plane. Everyone in Mithrendain knows this legend, but few, if any, know whether it is true. Nevertheless, its legacy remains in the customs and traditions of your home. Timekeeping devices are considered ill fortune, and at every grand festival in Mithrendain, an hourglass is shattered before the crowd, its sands scattered to the winds.

The Murkendraw

If the Feydark is a cancer that eats at the beauty of the Feywild from below, the Murkendraw is a pustulant boil on the face of that splendor. The bleak, sodden landscape in various shades of brown, gray, and black festers beneath thick swamp fog that is sometimes poisonous. Clotted mud gives way to sudden quicksand or curtains of assassin vines and yellow musk creepers. In the starless night skies, only the moon gazes down, casting its stark light across the drab wasteland.

The Murkendraw is a swamp the size of a sea, infested with feymire crocodiles as large as the flatbottom skiffs that float among the putrid detritus. Fat, bloodthirsty marsh flies, some the size of dogs, buzz through the late afternoon air. Thunderstorms cover the area for days at a time, riddling the swamp with lightning, and hags such as the infamous Baba Yaga exult in the unbridled chaos.

Witches driven from civilization by zealous clerics learn to use the natural environs of the Murkendraw against witch hunters, whose corpses feed the crocodiles, marsh flies, and quicksand pits.

Murkroot Trade Moot: Somewhere beneath the sodden soil at the edge of the great Murkendraw Swamp, a secret hides from the angry nobles of the Summer Court. Lost to all but those who have been there before, this place remains beyond the reach of those who would destroy, conquer, or exploit it at least until someone who has been there betrays it. The Murkroot Trade Moot is an underground bazaar of the illegal and the illicit in the Feywild, a black market of things the Sid he lords don’t want the people of their realms to know about.

Suppliers of slaves, purveyors of poisons, mixers of uncertain elixirs, merchants of mercenaries, innovators of unusual items-all meet at the Murkroot Trade Moot to sell their wares. When an eladrin chokes upon wine at a ball or falls in the forest after the scratch of a dart, poisons purchased at Murkroot might be held responsible. When a princess swoons at the sight of a pauper or a priceless jewel vanishes from a vault, the potions of Murkroot frequently take the blame. The curse that cripples the hero might have its origins in Murkroot, as might its cure.

Nachtur, the Goblin Kingdom

Along the overland route between the eladrin realms and the goblin kingdom ofNachtur lies a great expanse of wilderness. To the south of eladrin territory, this wide swath of land is green and thickly forested. As a traveler moves east and north, the forest gives way to open meadows and eventually to dry, rocky ground before it becomes gray badlands of fissures, crevices, high cliffs, and glowering hills. These wastelands are the gates to Nachtur, the realm of the goblin king known as the Great Gark.

When the goblins come storming from their domain in the company of giants, ogres, and trolls, they take what they want and slay at random. In these twilight borderlands in which you dwell, rumor says that the goblins steal fey creatures and children and drag them back to the palace of the Great Gark, where the innocent are eaten and the malicious are changed into goblins.

If you dwell in Nachtur, you must be wary not only of goblins, giants, trolls, and ogres but also of boggles skulking in the night. These small fey are cowardly when confronted. Boggles can make holes between distant spaces, reaching through from far away to steal your belongings or strangle you in your sleep. Goblins prize boggles as pets and have some success training them as assassins.

The fairy tales told on the borders of Nachtur rarely end with the hero defeating a foul ogre. Instead, they are cautionary tales-true (or supposedly true) accounts of fools who dabbled in the affairs of goblins or tried to outwit trolls and consequently came to gruesome ends. Others might deem your stories bloody or morbid, but in the lands of Nachtur, that’s just how life is.


Cresting the titanic silver trees of the Summer Queen’s demesne is a palace woven from the living wood by the hand of Or an, the Green Lord, one of the greatest of the archfey. Summer never ends in this realm, hung with curtains of ivy and cascades of orchids, lavender, and roses. Here, the archfey of the Court of Stars gather to confer, revel, and scheme. Courtiers and petitioners from every realm in the known universe, overburdened with wondrous gifts, come to beg the Summer Queen’s favor.

Cradled in mighty silver limbs high above the Feywild, the Summer Queen’s demesne is a sacred haven reserved for the Court of Stars and those who have business with the archfey. The sheltering light of high Senaliesse bathes the enchanted forest for miles around in the protective glow of the Summer Queen’s presence. It is here in the land of eternal summer that you make your home. Industrious gnomes flit amid the massive roots of great trees while sun-eyed summer nymphs play in the shady groves among passionate satyrs, stately treants, and quiet dryads. When the sun sets over the Feywild, unicorns the color of midsummer stars emerge to drink from the enchanted streams, and the tall grasses giggle with the childlike laughter of pixies reveling in the warm summer night.

If you hail from Senaliesse, you are accustomed to a life of perpetual merriment, experiencing every sensation as if for the first time. Your people never tire of games and sport. Visitors to Senaliesse who refuse to play become the targets of tricks and pranks-a game unto itself. However, given to each friend of the fey a blue chrysanthemum that never loses its petals; those favored few can travel through the realm without molestation.

Diplomats and courtiers of every stripe pass through this enchanted forest, including benevolent sprites, wicked hags, and everything in between. Few creatures encounter as many powerful beings in their lives as you do in the course of a year, and you are quite comfortable in the presence of such beings. When you cross paths with a mighty archfey or hag, your people chant the rhyme, “Beneath the sun or falling rain, I yield to thee thy path again,” in deference to the dominant traveler. Such verses have power in the fey realm, and anyone who recites that particular rhyme must immediately be excused for any perceived slight against the archfey.


Every midnight, after the stars have appeared in the skies of the Feywild, the eladrin city of Shinaelestra starts to shimmer in the darkness like the slow ebb of green-white ocean waves. The city, already overrun by wilderness, recedes from the Feywild and emerges in the Howling Forest of the natural world.

As an inhabitant of the Fading City, you are a creature of two worlds, each as perilous as the other. In the golden sunlight of the Feywild, you work through the day, cultivating the plump grapes of the hills for feywine, fletching keen-tipped hunting arrows with the feathers of homing pigeons, or patching the places in the city where the roots of strong trees have grown through.

Yet beneath your feet in the cavems of the Feydark, the brutish fomorians of the evil Queen Connomae plot your downfall, emerging from their subterranean realm at dusk to attack. They seek to conquer Shinaelestra so they can raid the natural world each night when the fey city appears in the Howling Forest. You are a veteran of dozens of fomorian skirmishes, fervently battling the twisted giants until midnight when Shinaelestra fades away into the mortal realm.

Even after the worldfall leaves the fomorians behind, you cannot lower your guard. Creatures of the Howling Forest cry their bloodlust into the night air, and the trolls, especially, have developed a taste for the sweet delicacy of fey flesh. You shoot them with a hundred arrows, and still they come crawling from the darkness to steal your people. And although it is true that fire will stop a troll, fire will also burn a forest- and all life within it-to ashes.

Despite your troubles, the people of Shinaelestra are among the most valiant and vibrant in the Feywild. Constant adversity has made you strong and resourceful, and it has broken down the barriers of isolation that many eladrin place between themselves and other races.

Some people refer to your home as the Fading City not because of its nightly worldfall but because they deem it a dying civilization. However, no one who witnesses your fighting spirit would dare make such a comparison. Under the able leadership of the ranger lord Calenon Thray, the people of Shinaelestra embrace the challenges they face, fighting more ferociously than drow and celebrating more vigorously than lusty satyrs. Wonder-struck mortals who chance upon your city pass on tales of elegant warriors, radiant as starlight, who hunt for the heads of giants. Ever victorious, the fey heroes feast and revel until dawn in marvelous halls arched by the boughs of trees, open to the night sky.

Vale of the Long Night

Beneath the oppressive snowfalls that drown the land in a crystal white ocean of winter, the Fortress of Frozen Tears rises from a high glacial spire like a jagged icicle. The constant glow of the ever-full moon shines down on frozen lakes, gnarled and barren orchards, and lonely, snow-covered mountains. The stars burn coldly overhead, as distant and pitiless as billions of icy snowflakes poised in the everlasting darkness, waiting to descend.

Long ago, the Summer Prince who lived here lost his heart to one of the fair Daughters of Delight. She betrayed him for the love of a mortal hero, escaping to a time and place beyond his reach. As a result, the prince’s heart turned to solid ice, and his demesne became a desolate realm of frozen night, the least hospitable land on the surface of the Feywild. Only the winter fey feel at home here, although they do not share the intense spite exhibited by the Prince of Frost.

If you hail from the Vale of Long Night, your existence constitutes little beyond grim survival in the endless moonlight. You spend your days hunting the hardy game animals that feed on tundra moss and grass, making clothes of their hides and tools of their bones; the realm has precious few resources, and even fewer crops grow in this area. Winter fey sculpt the snow to make ice castles, hags take flight across the frosty skies, and winter nymphs ride on the backs of wolves, howling across the tundra in search of prey.

However you came to be here, your survival depends on your wit, strength, endurance, and capacity to make uncompromising choices. The indecisive are extinguished as quickly as candle flames in the winter wind. In this land, emotions are flaws to be manipulated, and the weak fall quickly to stronger predators.


Fey creatures are divided into a number of factions. Though these factions claim some loyalty to their chosen archfey, there is little to bind a creature to a faction permanently.

Court of Stars:

Myriad archfey band together several times a year at the congress known as the Court of Stars, where they engage in diplomacy, schemes, marriages, betrayals, and legendary revels. Although dozens of lesser factions (seen below) make up the Court of Stars, they mostly acknowledge the leadership of Her Summer Majesty, Queen Tiandra.

Court of Coral: The Court of Coral encompasses the aquatic and island-dwelling fey, ruled by the Sea lords. The Sea lords are Elias and Siobhan Alastai, siblings who oversee the rivers and seas of the Feywild, respectively.

Gloaming Fey: The Gloaming Fey are associated with dreams, darkness, stars, twilight, and dusk. They owe allegiance to a variety of archfey, the most famous of which is the Maiden of the Moon, a formidable hunter and the bane of all lycanthropes.

Green Fey: The Green Fey are the servants of Oran the Green lord, the loftiest of the archfey of nature. Most of the Green Fey are forest-dwelling creatures, such as hamadryads, satyrs, and elves.

Summer Fey: The Summer Fey embody the innate beauty and power of their patron, Tiandra, the Summer Queen. Of all of the archfey, Tiandra commands the largest following of Sid he lords and other eladrin.

Winter Fey: Fey creatures bound to the icy power of winter rarely consider themselves to belong to any faction and have no true leader. The most powerful among them is the Prince of Frost, and those who follow him and similar fey lords are roughly grouped together as the Winter Fey.

Unseelie Fey: Though they have no true representative among the Court of Stars, there are fey creatures of evil, maliciousness, and corruption that are collectively known as the Unseelie fey. Many of these creatures draw power or are shaped by the power of shadow, drawn from the Feywild’s opposite counterpart, the Shadowfell.


FR Scales of War caneton