The Fallen Lands of Westerness
Thurandiel (the Prison of Dreams) is a land out of place, a dream caught in the unwelcome embrace of the real world. The Doom of Trokare brought chaos and destruction not just upon the lands of Westerness, but to realms farther than most common folk could imagine. Thurandiel once sat deep in the heart of the Feywild, a wild, magical reflection of the real world (or, so many scholars believe – there are those in the Feywild that would argue as to which world is a reflection of which). The planar conflux which destroyed Trokare dragged a portion of the Feywild into the mortal world, ripping away a large swath of the arid planes of the great Bladesea and replacing them with the dark woods of Thurandiel.
In the aftermath of the event, those few explorers that did venture into the newly-arrived woods, who survived to return, told of patrols of well-armed Eladrin and Elves which warned away any intruders, and sent volleys of arrows and magic against those who did not heed their warnings. Explorers spoke of strange fey beasts that had never been sighted outside the Feywild in living memory, of gleaming spires of crystal and archways of glowing stone that echoed with ethereal voices, calling the explorers by name, singing songs that seemed to give voice to their unspoken desires. Since those early days, few have dared those strange woods – the people of Westerness were content to let the fey folk deal with whatever horrors and wonders had accompanied them from the Feywild, as long as they did not escape into the surrounding lands.
Now, after genrations of solitude and mystery, the fey folk of Thurandiel have begun to stir from seclusion. For nearly one hundred years this forest and its denizens have brooded quietly, if not peacefully. Now, however, the Eladrin of Thurandiel raft down the Tallowscar to the port of Dalinir, trading their fabled feywine for supplies, gold and information. Elves from the fey forest venture past the confines of their wooded realm, deep into the great Bladesea, searching, scouting, hunting – none can say, for they refuse to speak of their business. Gnomes calling Thruandiel their home now ply the traderoads, selling their strange wares in every market and square from Wintermet’s frigid tradepost to the great Bazaar of Hyir-Khan.