The Primal Wilds is a Realm of endless and ever-shifting nature, where the beasts and plants are as canny as mortals and the entities who look like mortals are terrifying in their fickle nature and monstrous power. It is filled with the essence of life and of the wilderness, a place where the law of survival of the fittest is just as foundational as that of gravity. Though there is a veneer of something resembling civilization amongst the Primal Lords and other sentient creatures who dwell within the Wilds, that thin layer of civil society is all-too-easily thrown aside in favor of something far more vicious and bloody.
Mortals who deal with entities from the Primal Wilds must remember that they will be viewed as either entertainment, tools, or food. The creatures from this Realm have only two priorities: their own survival and growing more powerful. Everything they do serves one of those two ends, and mortals who forget this fact often end up as either slaves or sustenance for whichever creature they are attempting to negotiate with.
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Editor’s Note: The following is a summary of dozens of accounts by those who have either interviewed the denizens of the Primal Wilds or returned from a sojourn through that Far Realm. While the information contained herein should be relatively accurate, it is not complete, nor is it reliable in all cases. As always when dealing with the Far Realms, be constantly wary and never take what is “common” knowledge to be complete truth.
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The most commonly-used term for a denizen of the Primal Wilds is Sidhe (pronounced “shee”), which means something akin to “foreign noble” in Sylvan. The term was primarily used by the Miirfolk as an oblique way of signifying when they’re speaking of a being from the Wilds without the risk of giving insult, and over time the word’s use has spread across the Continent.
Sidhe are, so far as mortals can tell, universally unaffected by the mortal maladies associated with aging. While most Sidhe do not grow noticeably stronger simply through the passage of years, neither do they weaken, and none have ever been recorded as having died of old age.
All Sidhe who are sentient and capable of speech speak True Sylvan (see the Languages page). Even those who physically cannot speak are often startlingly capable of understanding spoken Sylvan. Most scholars agree that there is something about the Wilds that causes creatures born of that Realm to have an innate grasp of the Sylvan language, though there is frustratingly little direct proof of this. Literacy is essentially universal amongst Primal Lords, Heralds, and Kyne, but very few amongst the Verdure are able to read Sylvan, even though they can instinctively speak it.
There are four generally-agreed-upon categories used to separate the Sidhe, based on their role within the Wilds: Lords, Kyne, Verdure, and Heralds.
“Primal Lord” is the term used to describe the Lords of the Primal Wilds, incredibly powerful demigods who control a demesne within the Wilds, shaping it to their will and struggling against each other to expand their territory.
Every Primal Lord has fought for their position. They use cunning, politics, and violence to gain personal control over a portion of the Wilds and enough mystical power make their demesne a true reflection of themselves. For instance, the realm of a cruel Lord will become hostile and needlessly painful to those who stray into it, while the realm of a kind or generous one will be full of small boons and natural treasures for those who are good guests within it. The size and vibrancy of a Lord’s demesne is inherently tied to their life essence and power within the Wilds — just as their realms reflect their personalities, their power in turn is a reflection of their realm. Because of this, Primal Lords are constantly attempting to gain more territory or influence within the Wilds, as growing the size and power of their demesne directly increases their own power.
There is a rough hierarchy amongst the Primal Lords of each season, similar to the old noble titles of Rivermark. A Monarch rules over each seasonal realm, and under them are, in descending order of power, Dukes and Duchesses, Earls, Counts and Countesses, and finally Barons and Baronesses. Those Lords of Ducal or Earl rank whose demesnes are frequently embroiled in conflicts with the other seasons are often give the title March-Lord or March-Lady by the Monarch of their season, to signify their position as one of the leaders of the season’s war-host (or what passes for one in the Primal Wilds). Even a Baron is an incredibly powerful entity and not one to be provoked lightly. A Duke is roughly equivalent to one of the Saints in power, and each of the seasonal Monarchs is functionally a God within the Wilds, though no Primal Lord has ever been recorded answering the prayers of a mortal like the True or Old Gods do.
Higher-ranking Lords rule over the lower-ranking ones through a combination of favors and fear, using their power to protect their lessers while demanding tributes and assistance in return, with the constant threat of violence should the lesser Lord refuse. However, the ranks of the Primal Lords are ever-shifting, and it only takes a single mistake for a Duke to lose their life and demesne to a clever or unexpectedly-powerful Earl. Because of this, the more powerful Lords tend to be very careful and crafty when managing their vassals, only demanding things that they know their vassal is willing to give and rarely pushing matters to the point of needing to actually use violence to get what they want.
When a Primal Lord perishes, their demesne begins to blend into the rest of the Wilds. Much of it can be quickly taken over by the one who slew them, devouring the fallen Lord’s power and claiming their territory in one fell swoop. However, the larger the demesne the more fragments there are that are not so easily consumed by the victor, and these scraps of territory are often snatched up by lesser Lords nearby to the conflict. This leads to a constant churn of territory and power amongst the Primal Lords, with lesser Lords carefully waiting for their chance to grow from the battles between their betters while constantly waging war upon each other to enlarge their demesnes.
Wherever a Primal Lord has their demesne, the Kyne belonging to that Lord will appear. The Kyne are sometimes called servants to the Lords, or citizens of their realms, but in truth mortals are still trying to understand the exact relationship that they have with the Lord whose demesne they arise from. Kyne are almost always servants or soldiers of some kind, working for a Primal Lord in some form or fashion, and are functionally the lower class of what passes for society within the Wilds.
Kyne usually appear as some sort of humanoid-animal or -plant hybrid, with at least one pair of hands and the ability to speak Sylvan without significant trouble. Beyond that they are as varied as the myriad Primal Lords whom they serve. Each Primal Lord has a single “breed” of Kyne serving them, matching their nature and demesne. A spider-like Primal Lord, for instance, will employ Kyne with arachnoid traits and features, while a tree-based Lord will usually employ Kyne that appear to be fashioned out of living wood and leaves.
Kyne are sentient and (usually) capable of independent thought and action, up to and including rebellion against their Lord. Indeed, there are many recorded tales of Primal Kyne usurping control of a demesne from the Lord who gave them life, or going off on an adventure against the will of their Lord and becoming a Lord themselves in the process through luck and cunning. It’s thought that at least half of the Lords currently ruling the Primal Wilds were once Kyne of some sort, though none will actually admit to such a plebeian origin.
The beasts and plants of the Primal Wilds are collectively called “Primal Verdure” by scholars, literally “the green” that makes up the vast majority of the living things within the Wilds. Many of the Verdure are sentient, though by no means all, and while very few can speak naturally it’s not uncommon for them to be granted the power of speech by a Primal Lord as a reward for loyal service. The Verdure come in every shape and size possible for a plant or animal, and many that are physically impossible on Mundus. Some even have appearances similar to that of a mortal; though these are apparently few and far between within the Wilds themselves, such creatures often feature heavily in mortal myths of the Sidhe. Unlike the Kyne, the Verdure of a demesne do not bear a strong resemblance to one another, instead taking the forms of creatures, plants, and monsters that would normally arise in a similar ecosystem to that of the demesne’s.
Those amongst the Verdure who are sentient are frequently just as focused on increasing their personal power as any Primal Lord or Kyne. Whether fighting each other for resources or territory, stalking weak Primal Lords in hopes of killing them and taking their demesne, or taking a chance and snapping up a fragment of a demesne when a nearby Lord falls in battle, it is a rare member of the Verdure that does not have some plan to grow in power.
Verdure tend to view the world in terms of territory and predator-prey relationships. Territory is critical to them because if a Verdure can claim and defend a piece of the Wilds as their territory, then if and when the Lord whose demesne that piece belongs to perishes the whole of the territory often immediately becomes a new demesne under the Verdure’s control, elevating them into a Lord. This leads to fierce dominance battles amongst the Verdure within a given demesne, as well as constant efforts between the Verdure who have large territories to bring about the demise of their theoretical ruling Lord.
Predator and prey are likewise crucial to a Verdure’s survival and advancement, as most types of Verdure can devour creatures to gain a fraction of their metaphysical power. Once a Verdure has grown sufficiently in power, they become a real threat to the Barons and Counts who hold nearby demesnes, and it is only a matter of time until that Verdure has either claimed a demesne through violence or been slain as a cautionary measure by a fearful Primal Lord. Mortals in particular are favored prey of the Verdure, as mortal souls are brimming with power while their bodies are often weak and not able to put up much resistance to a hungry Verdure.
When a being becomes a Primal Lord, the process ties them fundamentally to their demesne. While their power can reach out to Mundus, they cannot physically venture there themselves, and so many elevate chosen servants to act as their their Heralds, to speak and make deals on the Primal Lord’s behalf. Most Heralds begin as highly-favored Kyne, though some are raised up from Verdure who prove themselves as capable servants in their own right.
The power that a Primal Herald possesses, both personal and as a representative of their Lord, is highly variable. Some Primal Lords (especially those of Earl rank and above) can turn their Heralds into demigods, stuffing them with so much magical might that they become capable of laying waste to armies or small cities on their own. Others choose to only give their Heralds enough power to act as a spokesperson and mediator for the Lords’ desires, and nothing more. Mortals encountering a Primal Herald are strongly advised to treat them as if they had the power to curse an entire Province, and to avoid giving offense at all cost.
Due to the highly varied nature of the beings within the Wilds, many Heralds are not terribly good diplomats while in their natural forms. Because of this, most Primal Lords will imbue their Heralds with the ability to shapeshift and morph themselves to better impress and put at ease the mortals they are dealing with. While Heralds usually have the same appearance, it’s not terribly uncommon for them to show up wearing a different body from what the mortals they are speaking with are used to. However, they always have some sort of ‘tell,’ a trait or feature that they cannot hide or transform, which lets those familiar with them identify them no matter what their appearance.
At the center of the Wilds is a sprawling realm known only as the Convergence, where the powers of the four seasons meet, collide, and intermingle. It is a constantly shifting battleground, with terrain that never remains the same for more than a day, and can sometimes change heartbeat by heartbeat as Lords of different seasons vie for control over it. While the terrain itself is rarely hostile to intruders, the Sidhe who are present within the Convergence are always on a war-footing, and rarely interested in talking before they attack.
The Convergence is about a quarter the size of any of the seasonal realms, according to a handful of maps crafted by the Sidhe that scholars have been able to get their hands on. It has only one landmark that remains constant, the towering world-tree known as the Nexus, and otherwise all maps of the place are expected to be in error somehow within days, and utterly useless within a month. The region’s size is enough to fit the demesnes of many Lords within it, but all who attempt to stake a claim to the Convergence inevitably fall to the combined might of the other seasons — not even a Monarch can expect to claim a piece of the Convergence as theirs and survive for a full year.
The Convergence goes through hot and cold phases, depending on the whims and stratagems of the four Monarchs. Some seasons it is soaked in blood, as Primal Lords and their vassals move through it in waves, crashing against one another in constant battle. Other times it is a tense no-mans-land, its terrain shifting more gradually and the Sidhe lurking within it waiting for someone else to make the first move. Neither season is safe for mortals.
Nonetheless, the purest and most potent magical energies to be had in the Wilds can only be found in the Convergence — all four seasons converge here, and the deaths of so many countless millions of Sidhe over the eons has soaked the earth, water, and even the air with remnants of their power. Relics from the Convergence — bones, crystals, pure spring waters, soil, leaves, etc. — are precious commodities amongst those who practice naturalistic magics on Mundus, and so at least once a generation some mad mage decides to mount an expedition to the center of the Wilds to collect as much as they can. Only a handful of such expeditions have ever had survival rates above 50%.
At the very center of the Convergence, rising up out of the shifting primal hellscape like a mountain, stands the Nexus, a titanic tree of unknown species that is said by the Sidhe to be the oldest physical thing in Creation. Whether this is true or not, it is functionally the only holy ground that the Sidhe of all four seasons respect, acting as neutral territory where every Lord of the Wilds can come to speak, parlay, and trade with one another. Ancient oaths bind the Sidhe to nonviolence within the great vertical city that climbs from the tree’s roots up to its branches, and many mortals with the power and knowledge to travel the Far Realms have found that they can make deals with the Sidhe in the Nexus without needing to fear for their physical safety.
However, simply because the Sidhe cannot commit violence upon any within the Nexus does not mean that they are not still incredibly alien and dangerous. Oaths sworn in the Nexus bind tightly, and mortals who make bargains there and then break their vows find that their souls are no longer entirely theirs, the fate of their afterlife changed irrevocably by the ancient Sylvan runes carved into the bark of the tree.
The Nexus also acts as a hub for the Sidhe to travel to Mundus and other Realms. Its branches seem to fade into nothingness as one moves further from the trunk, and those who wander upon them carelessly frequently find themselves elsewhere, often with no way back. The Sidhe know the thousand and one paths upon what they call in the Common Tongue the Arbor’s Road, but mortals seem to never have any luck traversing the Nexus’ pathways on their own, and must always hire Sidhe to act as guides within and beyond the great tree.
The Everbloom is the realm of Spring within the Primal Wilds, a vibrant land filled with blooming flowers, sparkling streams, and gentle rains. It is a realm of growth and renewal, where the very air is charged with the energy of new life. It is also a realm of deadly-dangerous flora and fauna, full of toxins to bring down the unwary and predators lurking behind every blossom.
The realm itself is bursting with greenery — there isn’t a single speck of bare earth or stone, and only the fastest-moving streams and rivers manage to avoid having water-plants colonize their surfaces. The creatures that live within the Everbloom are similarly deeply connected to greenery. The bestial creatures of the Everbloom tend to all have at least a little bit of plant in them — lions with manes of emerald grasses, birds with oak leaves instead of tail feathers, and so forth. Many are essentially animated plants or have strong spiritual ties to a plant or patch of wilderness, such as treants, dryads, or naiads.
The weather of the Everbloom is as fickle and dangerous as the rest of the realm. At first glance, the Everbloom is incredibly pleasant, neither too hot during the day, nor too cold at night. The rain, however, is the true threat for travelers through the realm of Spring — every few days the skies open up and release a torrent of water. The rains can last for days at a time, and can drop multiple feet of water during each downpour. Flooding is not uncommon, and all species of flora and fauna have some means of either waiting out or taking advantage of a sudden rise in the water table. Travelers through the Everbloom are advised to bring rain gear and whatever equipment they need to climb a tree and camp out in its branches for a couple of days, should the surrounding terrain turn from verdant jungle into a lake over the course of an hour or two.
Decay has little hold within the Everbloom — very few things that perish have a chance to rot, as there is always something nearby that will consume them. Despite how much vibrant life it supports, the soil of the Everbloom is actually quite thin and poor in resources, leading many plants (even the ones that are relatively mundane) to be quite aggressive about capturing food. A journey through the Everbloom is full of botanical hazards, from constricting vines to venomous thorns to sticky paralytic sap to snapping fanged leaves and much more. Poisons and venoms are quite common amongst the flora and fauna of the realm, as well, making it even more hazardous.
The Lords, Kyne, and sentient Verdure of the Everbloom tend to be the most pleasant Sidhe that mortals can run into, often presenting a jovial face to the world and seemingly intent on enjoying their existence while they work towards whatever their other goals are. However, they are also the Sidhe that most often trick or deceive mortals, as despite their jovial and friendly demeanor they are still Sidhe, with all of the alien priorities and bloody goals that are required to survive and thrive within the Primal Wilds. Spring Sidhe who deal with mortals repeatedly often choose to leverage this misinterpretation for their own benefit, making themselves delightful company and excellent friends before executing a devastating betrayal. The trick is compounded by Spring Sidhe often having incredibly effective healing and transformative magics at their disposal, making it easy for them to do favors for desperate mortals that inevitably lead to those mortals’ downfall.
Solaria is the realm of Summer within the Primal Wilds, a sun-drenched paradise of golden fields, verdant orchards, shimmering lakes, and blood-soaked battlefields. It is a realm of eternal conflict and bountiful resources, where a traveler can pluck the tastiest, heartiest food they have ever tasted off of half the plants they come across, only to be slaughtered by a roving band of Summer Sidhe searching for enemies with whom to do battle.
The creatures and plants of Solaria tend to resemble those of Mundus with remarkable fidelity in their physical forms. However, while a Solarian beast or plant may look mostly like its coutnerpart from Mundus, there will always be telling differences. Most creatures with sharp fangs, claws, horns, or stingers will have those parts coated in some kind of polished metal. Similarly, plants within the realm of Summer often have some kind of reflective metallic surface on their leaves, stems, or petals, and if the metal covers the edge of a leaf or petal it is almost always razor-sharp. Light plays a distinct role within the biology of Solaria’s denizens, as well, with many creatures sporting glowing eyes and patches of bright flashing light within their hide, fur, or feathers to either blind or distract enemies.
The realm of Solaria itself is warm and bright, usually excessively so. The sun never sets, and its light burns those not native to the realm with supernatural hostility. The temperatures range from “almost uncomfortably warm” on the lower extreme to “scorching hot day in the desert” and “so hot and humid your sweat can’t evaporate” on the high end. The ecosystems and flora of the realm vary immensely in nature, from jungles to temperate woodlands to deserts to rolling savannas, but they are all stuck in a constant and never-ending heat wave. The only relief from the light and heat are the brief but intense rainstorms that roll across the realm, drenching all in their path before the land has a chance to fully desiccate.
The other constant within Solaria is its bounty. The flora and fauna of Solaria thrive in the intense heat and ever-present sunlight of the realm. Plants grow and ripen at an extremely rapid pace, and then those fruits stay ripe for months at a time. Similarly, animals reproduce extremely rapidly in the realm of Summer, with most having incredibly large litter sizes and growing to maturity at twice the rate (or even faster) as the equivalent sort of beast from Mundus would. Almost every creature within Solaria is in part an herbivore, just to take advantage of the bounty of the land, but there is always some kind of game to hunt for a predator’s meal as well.
Summer is the most war-like of the four seasons, and the Sidhe of Solaria are arrogant, notoriously direct in nature, and obsessed with mastering the art of war and their individual combat styles. They are fully capable of deceit and playing tricks on mortals, but they almost never do so for their own amusement, only using such tactics when it serves some greater tactical or strategic purpose. Most are brutally honest, both when they wish to make alliances and when they are about to attack — a number of mortals who have traveled through Solaria have told tales of enormous beasts who sat down for a chat before regretfully announcing that it’s dinnertime and that the mortal in question had best start running.
The politics of Solaria is one of constant warfare and ever-shifting alliances. The Lords of the realm fight grand battles against one another for control over resources and territory, and the Verdure act as mercenary forces in service to whichever Lord is willing to pay the most in resources or life-force. Alliances are built on the foundation of mutual benefit, and are ended whenever one or more parties stop benefiting from them. There is rarely any animosity involved, unless an alliance is broken suddenly and without warning, as the Solarian Sidhe view sneak attacks on an ally as a grave and unforgivable sin.
The Emberfall is the realm of Autumn within the Primal Wilds, a place of bountiful harvests, wild hunts, and creeping rot. It is a place of colorful foliage, crisp air, and mystical forests whose leaves rustle in the constant winds and where the air shimmers with the iridescence of fungal spores. It is a realm that embodies change and transition, where the natural world fights constantly against the inevitability of death, and every living thing hungers so that they might live for just one more day.
The Emberfall’s weather is fickle, for lack of a better word. It frequently becomes uncomfortably hot in the afternoon, and bitingly cold during the night. The brief and infrequent rain storms provide some relief from the heat when they happen during the day, but can threaten mortals traveling through the realm with hypothermia if they occur at night and the mortals in question don’t have a rainproof shelter. The wind, however, is constant — whether a gentle breeze or a blustery gale, it’s impossible to escape, and can present a number of hazards to both natives and visitors, the most common of which are wind-blown spores that cause infections and the possibility of blowing one’s scent towards a nearby predator. Outside of the sporefields, the Emberfall is incredibly loud, as the constant wind causes the leaves and grasses of the realm to shiver and rattle against one another incessantly. There is always a light haze in the air, and a smokey scent upon the wind — travelers are advised to flee immediately should the scent of smoke intensify, for wildfires can spring up out of nowhere with alarming speed and overtake thousands of acres in a single day before they burn out.
Everything in the Emberfall is constantly and rapidly in the process of dying, and despite the inherent horror of that fact from a mortal’s perspective the inhabitants of the realm view it as a simple fact of life. Plants grow from seed to fruiting maturity in the course of a week or less, and then fall apart in a burst of rot and decay within hours of their seeds becoming ready to germinate. Animals are always in some stage of decay, their bodies rotting away over the course of a few months even as the creature lives its life and breeds the next generation — only when some critical part of a creature’s form is so completely rotten and decayed that it can no longer function does this supernatural rot actually kill the beast.
The only way that any native of the Emberfall can forestall their inevitable doom is to consume the life force of others. The vital energies of whatever they feast upon reverses the decay that they have suffered, and can even grant them a temporary surge of strength and vigor, though such power never lasts very long before it, too, begins to fail under the withering influence of the Autumnal realm. Carnivorous creatures are constantly on the hunt, and are willing to take significant risks in pursuit of a kill, for they know that their injuries will be mended if they are successful and can feast upon their prey. Herbivores are constantly on the move, seeking plants reaching the peak of ripeness — though nearly every herbivore will also gladly dine upon the flesh and bones of a foolish hunter who gets too close.
As many mortals would expect for the realm of Autumn, the flora of the Emberfall are brilliantly-colored in hues of red, orange, and gold, with nary a speck of green to be found amongst them. The realm’s plants are, surprisingly, only rarely dangerous. Most plants rely upon the creatures that consume them to disperse their seeds, and so tend to be extraordinarily tasty and nutritious. Mortals who have traveled through the Emberfall and have managed to avoid being eaten have reported that it was quite easy to remain fed, and that the food of Mundus pales in comparison to the bounty that can be gathered within the realm of Autumn. Indeed, the Kyne of the Emberfall tend to create grand farms and plantations to grow particularly favored crops, harvesting them at the peak of ripeness and using Primal magics to hold them in that state until they are ready for consumption.
The other half of the Emberfall’s never-ending cycle of growth and decay are the entities born of the ever-present rot within the realm, the fungal creatures and ecosystems that blight portions of the Emberfall’s landscape. Vast fungal forests sprout practically overnight, overtaking whatever other flora once grew on that spot, and begin spewing out clouds of spores that block out the sun. Creatures that perish within the sporecloud quickly become infested, rising as fungal undead within a few hours of their deaths and spreading the blight of their parent-mushrooms far beyond the shadow of the sporecloud. Within days, however, the fungal blights and their foul inhabitants die off, withering like melting candles once their spores have been spread, leaving room for the “normal” flora and fauna of the realm to retake the area and the eternal cycle of rot and regrowth to continue.
The Sidhe of the Emberfall tend to be cruel and cunning, using violence and trickery with equal skill to achieve their aims and to acquire the life force that they need to continue living in their hostile but beautiful realm. They are all hungry, and always willing to do whatever it takes to get what they want. This is amplified to a dangerous degree in the Lords of the realm, who have all had to claw their way into their position through betrayal, bloodshed, and cutthroat political maneuvering. Cooperation between Lords of Autumn is always a tenuous thing, with the constant threat of betrayal hanging over every bargain, and so the Sidhe of the Emberfall tend to make heavy use of the Nexus to fashion binding oaths between each other, should they deem such a thing necessary.
The Rimeweald is the realm of Winter within the Primal Wilds, a vast expanse of forests, plains, and mountains fashioned of ice, shadows, and corpses, glistening like diamonds in the moonlight of the eternal night. It is a land of unremitting cold, of stillness and endurance, of patience and cold, unyielding logic. The land and all the creatures that live in it are even more hostile and alien than those of the other three seasonal realms, and few of the mortals brave enough to travel through the realm of Winter have returned to tell the tale.
The sun is rarely seen in the Rimeweald, only rising perhaps twice what a mortal would think of as a year. Light within the realm of Winter comes from the moon, a vast orb of pale ice spinning through the sky that gently illuminates the land below. When the sun does crest the horizon, the entire realm shuts down, with animals burrowing deep into the snow and plants retracting as much of their leaves as possible, fleeing from the blinding light and unseasonable heat that the sun’s rays bring.
The weather of the Rimeweald can be many things, but it is always cold. Mortals can survive in some portions of it, with the right equipment or magics, but others are so bitterly cold that even a fully-prepared party will freeze to death in short order, their flesh turning to ice before their eyes. Large storms blow through the realm on a regular basis, bringing a light dusting of snow with them but also blowing what snow is already present into a blizzard, creating dangerous white-out conditions that can last for days at a time. When weather is clear, the Rimeweald is unnervingly quiet, as the ever-present snow muffles sounds and gives the already dark and unsettling realm an even more alien quality.
The creatures of the Rimeweald tend to be fashioned of ice, darkness, bone, and dead wood and grasses. They are the least “natural-appearing” denizens of the Primal Wilds, as mortals would view them, though their forms do tend to mimic creatures that one might find in Mundus. Some examples are hounds of bleached bones bound together by threads of shadow, stags whose flesh is frozen earth and whose antlers are great boughs of barren oak, and humanoid creatures with faces carved out of blue ice and limbs of ivory covered in an ever-present layer of hoarfrost, and so forth. The flora of the realm of Winter is similarly outlandish, the plants growing leaves or grasses fashioned of living ice crystals. Mortals visiting the Rimeweald must bring their own provisions, as there is precious little food for them to eat within this realm.
The ecosystems of the Rimeweald are based on the living ice produced by these bizarre flora. The “plants” absorb the surrounding ice and snow, and turn it into leaves and grasses fashioned of glimmering blue and white ice. This living ice in turn is eaten by what pass for herbivores, who turn it into their own magical versions of flesh. Carnivores in turn consume the herbivores, and the corpses of all creatures that perish within the Frostweald are broken down into motes of frost and snow by swarms of Frost Scarabs, tiny crystalline insects fashioned of ice crystals. Food that originates from the other seasonal realms or Mundus, but particularly mortals is considered a delicacy by the residents of the Frostweald, though the creatures of Winter apparently cannot digest much “normal” biological matter at once without becoming ill.
The Sidhe of Winter are patient, calm, coldly logical, and viciously amoral. They always seek to maximize their own advantage and success, without any care for emotional attachments or motivations. This makes them predictable, at times, but also dangerously unreliable. Some are able to think many moves ahead, and these are the most dangerous — they are the ones who will appear as if they have something akin to mortal emotions and ability to form bonds with others, but they will always, always throw away whatever bonds they have built up if they believe it to be in their best interest, no matter how firm a mortal may think their friendship or alliance is.
The politics of Winter are remarkably stable, barring a Kyne or Verdure becoming stronger than a current Lord and overthrowing them, or the constant churn of new Lords replacing those that die in foreign conflicts. The Sidhe of Winter simply don’t take risks that they’re not reasonably certain will pay off, and so there isn’t the constant infighting that one sees in the other seasonal realms. Instead, there are plans, plots, and conspiracies that go on for centuries, as the Lords of the Frostweald patiently build their power-bases and seek to undermine those of their rivals, until at last one has a clear advantage and goes in for the kill.
The geography of the Primal Wilds defies the logic of maps, its borders twisting upon themselves in ways that simply cannot be expressed upon a piece of parchment or comprehended by a mortal mind. The best way that mortals have found to describe it, no matter how inaccurate it may be in its specifics, is that the Far Realm as a whole is arrayed like an unthinkably vast wheel, with the Convergence and Nexus as its central axle and the four seasonal realms spreading out from that point. Using this analogy, in the farthest reaches of the Wilds, where the edge of the wheel would be, lie the Wastes.
Where the Convergence is an ever-shifting landscape where all the powers of the four seasons meet and vie for dominance, the Wastes are where the concepts and powers of each of the seasons reach their purest and most dangerous form. Each season’s quarter of the Wastes is its own kind of hellish locale, but they all are so violently magical that only the most powerful Lords of each season can survive within them. Mortals have universally perished when they have attempted to travel to the Wastes, and even lesser Sidhe can only remain within the Wastes for a short period of time before they fall victim to the Wastes’ deadly energies.
It’s theorized that the Wastes continue on away from the Nexus infinitely, a vast storehouse of magic and power that slowly leaks inwards towards the center of the Primal Wilds. No Sidhe has been able or willing to confirm this, however, and few of the entities native to the Primal Wilds seems to particularly care about the cosmological implications of an infinitely-extending plane.
The Greenveil is the part of the Wastes beyond the Everbloom. The air of the region is aggressively toxic, constantly adapting to find some way past whatever resistances or immunities a creature within it might have against toxins. The land is full of sucking mud, and the plants grow so thick and rapidly that even if one can survive the toxic atmosphere and avoid sinking into the swamp below the flora will grow into a cage, trapping and swiftly digesting any who venture within.
The Dreadscour is the region of the Wastes beyond Solaria, an endless desert filled with windblown sand and burning light. The sun takes up a quarter of the sky, it is said, and burns those who enter with the raging heat of a wildfire. Even creatures resistant to heat, like many of the natives of Solaria, are swiftly torn apart by the constant barrage of sand, blown by hurricane-force winds until all that dare to tread the wastes are eroded down into nothing.
The Felblight is the region of the Wastes beyond the Emberfall. The ground is a spongy mass rather than any kind of earth or stone one might find in Mundus, covered in disgusting boils and oozing pus from great fissures. The air is thick and hazy, filled with spores, bacteria, and viruses that rapidly begin to decompose any creature foolish enough to enter. Entropy is vastly sped up within the Felblight, and the inevitable decay only accelerates as one moves deeper into the Wastes. Natives of the Emberfall are able to stave off this decay if they bring enough stores of life-force, but those not native to the realm of Autumn quickly rot and fall apart, no matter how powerful they might be.
The Silent Dark is the region of the Wastes beyond the Rimeweald. Its name is quite literal, as it is a place of eternal darkness and silence. Light, sound, and heat are all devoured by the magics of the land, leaving any travelers increasingly isolated and chilled the farther in they travel. Mortals and Sidhe from realms outside the Rimeweald perish quickly, the heat of their bodies quickly drained into the surrounding air and ground no matter how well-insulated they might be. Winter Sidhe fair somewhat better, though even they will eventually be frozen solid, as the Silent Dark drains the very life-force from them over time.