"The Dream-Born Fey"
Join the Aelfyn Sith, the children of dreams and keepers of the natural world's mysteries. Here, you can walk between the Court of Horn and Court of Ivory, embodying the untamed beauty and chaos of Grimmloch. Whether you are a cunning trickster, an ethereal guardian, or a courtly manipulator, your story dances on the edge of myth and magic. Will you protect the balance of dreams or sow discord in their fragile harmony?
Core Identity
Name: Aelfyn Sith
Icon: Tree - half black and half white
Primary Goal: Power
Gathering Spot: Alderwen
Values: Equilibrium, reciprocity, wisdom
Influences: European Fae mythologies
Legal Structure: Fey Laws (undefined)
Political Organization: Two Courts (Court of Ivory under Lady Ivory, Court of Horn under Lord Horn) with five subgroups whose allegiances shift between courts
Luminaries: Lord Horn and Lady Ivory (dual)
Preferred Magic System: Wildermancy (Wyldwort)
Liminal Aspect: Dreamworld Gateways (moonlit glades, enchanted meadows, alder groves, natural portals like tree hollows or still pools)
Origin and Role in Grimmloch
Origin: The first inhabitants of Grimmloch, born from dreams tied to nature's primal forces, such as sacred groves, untamed wildernesses, and ancient spirits.
Role in Grimmloch: Embodied the wild, untamed, and unpredictable aspects of the natural world. They understand and maintain the delicate balance of giving and receiving with nature.
Key Contribution: Their whispers at Grimmloch's dawn emphasized the cyclical nature of actions, stories, and journeys in the Dream World.
Ideal: Cultivating harmony between the natural world and civilization, nurturing wisdom and reciprocal relationships with all beings.
Deviation: Complacency, manipulative reciprocity, and passive conflict avoidance.
Political Structure: The Two Courts
The Aelfyn Sith are divided between two courts, ruled by the dual luminaries Lord Horn and Lady Ivory. These courts take their names and nature from the classical Gates of Horn and IvoryGreek mythological concept from Homer's Odyssey - the Gate of Horn allows true dreams, the Gate of Ivory allows false dreams:
The Court of Horn: Associated with true dreams, reality, and unvarnished honesty. In Greek mythology, the Gate of Horn allows true dreams to pass through.
The Court of Ivory: Associated with false dreams, illusion, beauty, and appearances. In Greek mythology, the Gate of Ivory allows deceptive dreams to pass through.
This is not a division of good versus evil, but of approach and philosophy—the eternal tension between what is real and what is beautiful, between harsh truth and pleasant illusion.
The Five Subgroups
The Aelfyn Sith organize themselves into five distinct subgroups, each with their own culture, values, and approach to fey existence. These subgroups shift allegiance between the Court of Horn and Court of Ivory.
The Gentry
In halls where starlight pools like wine and every word carries the weight of binding oath, the Gentry weave their webs of influence. Theirs is a world of silk and steel, where a perfectly timed smile can topple kingdoms and a carelessly offered favor might cost you centuries of service. They are the inheritors of the ancient SidheIrish fairy nobility of the Otherworld nobility, the Alfar who ruled before mortal memory, and they have forgotten nothing—especially not who owes them what.
The Gentry do not merely play at politics; they breathe it like air. Every conversation is negotiation, every gift a calculated investment, every social gathering a battlefield where weapons are wit, beauty, and the intricate knowledge of who holds leverage over whom. They dress in fashions that mortal courts will not imagine for another century, speak in honeyed phrases that mean three things at once, and move through society like apex predators who have evolved past the need for visible fangs.
Their power lies not in brute strength but in the accumulated weight of obligation and reputation. A Gentry lord might possess nothing but debts owed and favors promised, yet command more true power than any warlord with an army. They understand that influence is currency, that secrets are weapons, and that the right whispered word in the right ear at the right moment can reshape the political landscape more effectively than any sword.
Leadership among the Gentry is earned through a combination of lineage, cunning, and the ability to survive court intrigue that would break lesser beings. The historical figures Oberon & TitaniaKing and Queen of the Fairies in European folklore, popularized by Shakespeare serve as ideals—rulers who balanced power with partnership, whose conflicts reshaped the natural world, whose reconciliations brought spring itself. Current Gentry leaders style themselves after these legendary monarchs, though whether any can truly match their ancient power remains a subject of much elegant speculation and carefully concealed ambition.
Their relationship with mortal humans is complex and often exploitative. They steal children not out of cruelty but because mortal-raised fey possess qualities that court-raised nobility sometimes lack—adaptability, desperate hunger for belonging, willingness to prove themselves worthy. These stolen children, raised in fairy courts, become the most dangerous players of all—combining mortal flexibility with fey knowledge, forever caught between two worlds and owing everything to their patrons.
As twilight falls over their glittering halls, the Gentry gather for revels that last until dawn or beyond. Music plays that would drive mortals mad with longing, wine flows that tastes of starlight and forgotten summers, and dancers move through figures that tell stories of ancient conquests and newer schemes. But beneath the beauty lies calculation—who dances with whom, who arrives in whose company, who receives the subtle honor of the high seat or the equally subtle insult of being overlooked. Every gesture carries meaning; every moment is performance and assessment both.
To join the Gentry is to accept that you will never again take a word at face value, never again trust a gift without examining it for thorns, never again move through the world without calculating three moves ahead. But in exchange, you gain access to power that mortals can only dream of—the ability to reshape reality through carefully worded contracts, to command respect through sheer presence, to play the game at the highest levels where immortals stake centuries against each other in contests of wit and will.
Typical Members: Fair Folk from courtly traditions (SidheIrish fairy nobility, JinnArabian supernatural beings capable of appearing in human and animal forms, NephilimBiblical offspring of angels and humans, Bean-sidheIrish banshee, female spirit whose wailing warns of death, Witte WievenDutch wise women spirits, RózhanitsySlavic fate goddesses, NornsNorse fate weavers, MusesGreek goddesses of inspiration, DrangueAlbanian semi-divine protector spirits); Mannkyn raised in fey courts
The Horde
In the deep places where civilized folk fear to tread—the cave systems that honeycomb mountains, the ruins of failed kingdoms, the wastelands where nothing pretty grows—the Horde makes its home. Theirs is a world measured in scars and survival, where strength speaks louder than silver tongues, where clan loyalty trumps every other law, and where the weak learn quickly to become strong or become nothing at all. They are the ones the Gentry call crude, the ones that make Sidhe courts wrinkle their perfect noses, and they wouldn't have it any other way.
The Horde operates by rules that horrify the civilized and make perfect sense to anyone who's had to fight for every meal. Leadership goes to the strongest, the cleverest, or—most dangerous of all—the one who combines both. Challenges are settled with fists, clubs, or whatever comes to hand, and the loser either learns from defeat or doesn't get up. This isn't cruelty; it's clarity. When a goblin boss proves they can lead the warband to victory and plunder, everyone follows. When they fail, someone else steps up. No elaborate succession laws, no political maneuvering for decades—just raw, honest power.
Their clans are fierce, chaotic families bound by shared struggle and mutual need. A troll warband might bicker constantly, trading insults and occasional blows, but let an outsider threaten one of theirs and they become a single organism of violence and vengeance. Giants who would never agree on anything will stand shoulder-to-shoulder when their territory is invaded. Goblins scheme against each other endlessly until something bigger threatens the warren, and then they remember that they're all goblinkin first, rivals second.
The historical Goblin KingLegendary ruler of goblins in European folklore serves as their ideal—not the prettified version that courts whisper about, but the real thing. A being who built an empire from the unwanted, the discarded, the ones society called monsters and outcasts. Who proved that raw determination and strength in numbers could rival any amount of elegant intrigue. Who understood that sometimes the answer to "how do we solve this problem?" is simply "more goblins."
Humans who end up among the Horde—stolen children raised by goblin clans, desperate souls who fled to the wastelands, warriors who found more honesty in brutal combat than courtly games—become some of the fiercest members. They bring mortal desperation and adaptability to beings already comfortable with violence, creating combinations that terrify those who underestimate them. A human raised by ogres doesn't just learn to fight; they learn to fight like something twice their size with none of the hesitation civilized folk carry.
When the Horde gathers—in great warrens carved from stone, around bonfires in contested territories, in ruins they've claimed as fortresses—their celebrations are raucous, violent, and completely honest. They feast on whatever they've hunted or plundered, compete in contests of strength that regularly result in broken bones, tell stories of victories won through sheer stubborn refusal to lose. There's no pretense here, no careful word games. Insults are loud and meant. Laughter is genuine. Respect is earned in ways you can see and measure.
To join the Horde is to accept that life will be hard, dangerous, and completely without the comforts civilization offers. But in exchange, you gain something the pretty courts can never provide: the absolute certainty that your warband has your back, that strength and courage matter more than bloodline or beauty, that you'll never have to wonder what someone really means because they'll just tell you—probably loudly. The Horde doesn't promise elegance or immortal power games. They promise that if you're strong enough, fierce enough, and loyal enough to your clan, you'll have a place where those things matter more than anything else.
Typical Members: Gigaliths (Ogre, Giant, Troll, Cyclops, OjancanúBasque giant spirits, BasajaunBasque wild man/forest guardian); Trick-Fiends (Goblin, Bugbear, RedcapMurderous Scottish border goblin, Fear DeargIrish rat-tailed goblin trickster, TrowOrkney and Shetland troll, Kobold, KallikantzarosGreek malicious goblin, Duende, TrasguSpanish household goblin, Boggart, GrindylowEnglish water demon); Mannkyn raised among the horde
The Unhallowed
In forgotten crypts where moonlight never reaches, in towers abandoned to time and grief, in the spaces between heartbeats where death holds dominion—there dwell the Unhallowed. Theirs is a world of silence broken only by whispers, of beauty found in decay, of power purchased through isolation so complete that even other fey hesitate to seek them out. They are the death-touched, the grave-walkers, the ones who looked into the abyss and chose to make it their home. Society calls them cursed, but they call themselves free.
The Unhallowed have transcended mortality's most fundamental limitation: they have looked death in the eye and refused it, bargained with it, or become it so thoroughly that the distinction no longer matters. A lich who has hidden their death away like Koschei the DeathlessSlavic immortal sorcerer who hid his death in a needle inside an egg, binding their soul to objects secreted in impossible places. A vampire who has traded the sun for eternal nights and the clarity that comes with predatory existence. A banshee whose grief has become power, whose mourning voice carries prophecy and doom. They have paid terrible prices for their immortality, but they consider those prices worth paying.
Their isolation is both chosen and imposed. The living fear them instinctively, and they have learned to prefer the honesty of that fear to the false warmth of mortal company. Other fey find them unsettling—too close to the void that even immortals must one day face. But in their solitude, the Unhallowed have discovered something the courts and clans will never understand: freedom from obligation, from society's expectations, from the endless exhausting performance that social existence demands. They answer to no one but themselves and the laws of death they have mastered.
Leadership among the Unhallowed is not truly leadership at all, for each operates as a power unto themselves. Koschei the Deathless serves as their ideal—a being who achieved immortality through cunning rather than gift, who needed no court or clan, who built kingdoms and destroyed them on whims spanning centuries. When the Unhallowed gather—which is rare—it is as sovereign entities meeting as equals, each bringing their own hard-won secrets, each maintaining their own domains.
The few mortals who join the Unhallowed are those who have stared too long into darkness and found it staring back with interest. Death cultists who worship the beauty in decay, necromancers who see no reason the dead should stay that way, those who have lost so much that they seek to lose everything else including mortality itself. Some are fleeing unbearable grief; others are pursuing power that life alone cannot grant. All are willing to trade the warmth of connection for the cold clarity of undeath.
Their territories are places others avoid—graveyards where the dead are restless, ruins haunted by more than memory, towers where lights burn at windows but no living thing dwells within. They conduct their research in absolute privacy, pursue their immortal interests without interruption, perfect their dark arts in solitude that would drive social creatures mad. When they do emerge, it is usually for purposes inscrutable to others: a vampire attending the opera after centuries of absence, a wraith drifting through a battlefield to collect the newly dead, a lich appearing to claim an artifact they've been patient enough to wait three hundred years to acquire.
To join the Unhallowed is to accept that you will walk alone, that warmth and connection are prices you've paid for power and freedom, that society will fear and shun you and you will learn to prefer it that way. But in exchange, you gain something mortals and even most immortals cannot comprehend: the absolute sovereignty that comes from answering to nothing and no one, the dark knowledge that comes from intimate understanding of death, the terrible beauty of existing in the spaces between life and void. The Unhallowed do not promise community or belonging. They promise that you will never again need either.
Typical Members: Bane-Touched (BansheeIrish female spirit whose wailing foretells death, Wraiths, DraugrNorse undead guardian of burial mounds, DullahanIrish headless horseman, StrigoiRomanian undead, UpyrSlavic vampire, Vampires, Liches, Ghouls, MareGermanic nightmare demon that sits on sleepers' chests, Fear DubhIrish dark man, death omen, MormoGreek female vampire spirit, StrixRoman vampiric bird-woman, AlpGerman nightmare spirit, NachzehrerGerman plague-spreading undead, VrykolakasGreek undead, BarghestEnglish death omen hound, MoroiRomanian vampire, LidércHungarian incubus/succubus, StrzygaPolish vampire witch); solitary Trick-Fiends who reject all community; Mannkyn death cultists, necromancers, or those seeking undeath
The Folkling (Burrows)
In the warm spaces where hearth fires burn—whether behind kitchen stones in human homes, in cozy burrows carved beneath rolling hills, or in entire villages built to comfortable scale—there dwell the Folkling. Theirs is a world measured in small kindnesses and domestic routines, where a perfectly swept floor brings satisfaction, where well-tended gardens yield abundance, where the endless small tasks of daily life matter more than epic quests. They are the ones dismissed as trivial by grander fey, the ones the courts overlook, and they prefer it precisely that way.
The Folkling understand something that courtly powers and tribal warriors often miss: the world is built not on grand gestures but on ten thousand small acts repeated daily. Bread must be baked, floors must be swept, clothes must be mended, children must be watched, fires must be tended. This is the work that makes civilization—whether human or their own—possible, and the Folkling have made it their domain.
Some dwell alongside humans, choosing to live in the hidden spaces of human homes in exchange for simple respect, proper offerings, and the deep comfort of being needed. Entire brownie neighborhoods exist behind walls, domovoiSlavic household guardian spirits claim households as their own, pixies make homes in garden sheds. But others build their own communities entirely—villages of comfortable burrows where everything is sized just right, towns where the architecture prioritizes coziness over grandeur, settlements where everyone knows their neighbors and communal feasts happen weekly. These independent Folkling communities prove that you don't need humans to value domesticity; you just need to believe that comfort and community matter more than conquest.
Their social networks span vast regions through both types of settlements. A brownie living behind human walls might have cousins in an independent burrow-village three valleys over. A domovoi family might send their children to learn trades in a gnomish town. A pixie commune in a garden shed coordinates with a larger pixie settlement in the deep woods. They gather for councils, trade gossip and goods, create intricate relationships that remain invisible to those who think size equals importance.
The historical Finvarra & OonaghKing and Queen of Irish fairy folk, rulers of Connacht's Sidhe serve as their ideals—fairy nobility who never forgot the value of hearth and home, who built their power not through grand conquests but through deep connections to place and people, who understood that true wealth is measured in contentment rather than gold. The Folkling aspire to this whether they live in human attics or their own villages: power through presence, influence through indispensability, immortality through being woven so deeply into daily life that their absence would unmake things.
Humans who join the Folkling—foundlings raised by brownie families, orphans adopted by domovoi, those who fled larger lives for smaller more honest ones—discover a form of belonging that courts and clans cannot match. Some settle in Folkling villages where everything is perfectly scaled and comfortable; others choose to live the traditional way, dwelling in human homes as partners rather than servants. Either way, their value isn't determined by how well they fight or scheme but by how reliably they contribute to the community's wellbeing.
When the Folkling celebrate—in cozy burrows, around hearth fires, in village squares where everything is warm and welcoming—their gatherings are genuine and full of the kind of laughter that comes from true comfort. They share food they've grown or helped prepare, tell stories about their neighbors (with affection and exasperation both), swap tips for gardening or baking or raising children. There's mischief here too—they are fey, after all—but it's the gentle kind, the sort that teaches lessons without causing real harm.
To join the Folkling is to accept that you will never be grand or famous, that your contributions might go unnoticed by those who value only dramatic gestures, that comfort matters more than glory. But in exchange, you gain something increasingly rare: genuine community, work that matters on a domestic scale, the deep satisfaction of making daily life better—whether for yourself, your village, or the humans you've chosen to live alongside—and the certain knowledge that you are needed, valued, and home. The Folkling don't promise power or eternal beauty. They promise that you'll never be alone, that your work will always matter, and that there will always be fresh bread and warm fires waiting.
Typical Members: Delvers (Dwarves, Gnomes, Halflings, DvergrNorse dwarves, master craftsmen living underground); Hearth & Hedge-Fey (Brownies, Domovoi, KikimoraSlavic female household spirit, Pixie, Sprites, Leprechaun, ClurichaunIrish fairy known for drunkenness, AnjanaAsturian fairy godmother, LutinFrench household spirit, KorriganBreton fairy of springs and fountains, KabouterDutch/Flemish household gnome, Hobgoblin); Mannkyn adopted by household fae or living in Folkling settlements
The Wilderkin
In places where civilization fears to tread—the deep forests where moonlight filters through ancient canopy, the wild rivers that have never known a bridge, the mountain meadows where flowers bloom in patterns no gardener planned—there dance the Wilderkin. Theirs is a world of primal beauty and raw power, where storms are celebrated rather than sheltered from, where predator and prey understand their roles in nature's grand design, where the only law is the turning of seasons and the only obligation is to the wild itself. They are what the Gentry were before courts tamed them, what the Folkling were before hearths domesticated them—pure, untamed, gloriously free.
The Wilderkin live by the rhythms that drove the world before mortals built their first walls. They hunt when hunger calls, revel when joy moves them, grieve when loss strikes, love when passion demands it. There are no schedules here, no careful planning, no deferred gratification. When the moon is full and the music rises, they dance until dawn breaks or beyond. When winter comes, they embrace its harshness rather than hiding from it. When spring returns, they celebrate with abandon that would scandalize any court. They are the embodiment of nature's essential truth: life is meant to be lived at full intensity, consequences be damned.
Their communities exist in the liminal spaces between human order and true wilderness—sacred groves where dryadsGreek tree nymphs tend trees older than kingdoms, rivers where naiadsGreek freshwater nymphs play in currents strong enough to drown the unwary, meadows where satyrsGreek half-man half-goat nature spirits pipe songs that make mortals forget their names. They have no permanent structures beyond what nature provides, no property beyond what they carry, no wealth except the richness of experience. A tree-hollow serves as well as a palace; a moss-covered stone makes as fine a throne as carved marble; the stars provide all the ceiling anyone needs.
The ErlkingGermanic king of the fairies who leads the Wild Hunt serves as their ideal—beautiful and terrible, leading the Wild HuntGermanic/Norse spectral hunting party led by supernatural figures across night skies, master of the deep forest's darkest magic, embodying the truth that nature's beauty and nature's danger are inseparable. He represents what the Wilderkin aspire to: absolute freedom purchased through absolute acceptance of nature's ruthless laws, power that comes from being perfectly aligned with primal forces rather than trying to control them.
The humans who join the Wilderkin—those who fled civilization's chains, who heard the pipes and followed them past the point of return, who chose wild freedom over safe captivity—become the most dangerous of all. They combine mortal intensity and adaptability with fey timelessness and nature's power, creating beings that belong fully to neither world. They are the hermits who appear at settlements' edges, more beast than human now. They are the wild children raised by nature spirits, speaking languages of wind and water. They are the ones who looked at civilization's offerings and chose the forest instead.
When the Wilderkin gather—in moonlit glades for revels that last for days, in sacred groves for rituals older than language, in wild places where the veil is thin—their celebrations are ecstatic, primal, and utterly without restraint. Music that sounds like wind through trees or thunder over mountains. Dancing that becomes trance becomes transformation. Wine that tastes of wild grapes and madness. Love that blazes bright and burns out when passion wanes. They live fully in each moment, understanding that trying to hold onto anything is to miss the point entirely.
But the Wilderkin are not without danger—to outsiders and sometimes to each other. The same forces that make them beautiful make them perilous. A rusalkaSlavic female water spirit, often vengeful might drown you while laughing. A satyr's song might trap you in revelry until you die of exhaustion. A kelpieScottish water horse that drowns riders might carry you into deep water for sport. They do not hate mortals; they simply do not think of them the way domesticated fey do. To the Wilderkin, humans are part of nature's pattern—sometimes prey, sometimes companions, sometimes vessels for wild ecstasy, always temporary.
To join the Wilderkin is to accept that you will never again be safe, comfortable, or part of civilized society. You will know hunger, cold, danger, and the constant risk that comes with absolute freedom. But in exchange, you gain something civilization can never provide: the intoxicating joy of being fully alive, perfectly aligned with nature's raw power, dancing to music older than thought itself. The Wilderkin don't promise you comfort or safety or even long life. They promise that whatever life you have will be lived at an intensity that makes every moment worth the price.
Typical Members: Beastkin (Faun, Satyr, Púca/PookaIrish shape-shifting trickster spirit, Kelpie, Nøkk/NixScandinavian/Germanic water spirit, ShellycoatScottish water spirit wearing shells); Land-Wights (Dryad, Rusalka, EntsTree shepherds from Germanic/English folklore, HuldraNorwegian forest spirit, LeshySlavic forest guardian spirit, VodyanoySlavic male water spirit, Vila/WilaSlavic nature spirit, often beautiful and dangerous, Nymph, Naiad, NereidGreek sea nymph, FossegrimNorwegian waterfall spirit, LamiakBasque water nymph, Jenny GreenteethEnglish river hag, IeleRomanian dancing fairy spirits, PłanetnikSlavic cloud/storm spirit); Mannkyn living as feral hermits among nature spirits
Lord Horn and Lady Ivory: Guardians of the Threshold
At the heart of Alderwen, where ancient alder trees bleed red sap and their roots drink from waters that flow between worlds, stand the twin gates through which all dreamers must pass. One is carved from horn—dense, honest, unyielding. The other gleams with ivory—smooth, beautiful, carefully crafted. Lord Horn and Lady Ivory are not merely rulers of courts; they are the living embodiment of the threshold itself, the question every dreamer must answer: Do you seek what is true, or what is beautiful?
This is not a choice between good and evil. Both truth and beauty have their place; both courts serve necessary functions. Lord Horn offers the unvarnished reality of Grimmloch—its dangers acknowledged, its bargains honored with brutal honesty, its nature accepted without flinching. His court values directness, keeps oaths to the letter regardless of cost, and sees the world as it actually is rather than how one wishes it to be. Those who pass through his gate arrive in Grimmloch ready to face what they find there, protected by clear-eyed understanding of the realm's true nature.
Lady Ivory offers something equally valuable: the dream as it should be, reality filtered through beauty and artistry until it becomes bearable, transformative, transcendent. Her court values aesthetics, crafts illusions that contain deeper truths than mere facts, and understands that sometimes the lovely lie serves better than the harsh reality. Those who pass through her gate arrive in Grimmloch wrapped in wonder, protected by the enchantment that makes impossible things seem natural and terrible things appear beautiful.
The five orders shift their allegiances between the courts not through betrayal but through necessity. The Gentry might favor Ivory when pursuing elegant political solutions, then turn to Horn when oaths must be kept regardless of consequence. The Wilderkin might revel under Ivory's moon when celebrating beauty's ecstasy, then hunt beneath Horn's truth when winter demands practical survival. Even the Unhallowed understand both gates—death is the ultimate truth (Horn), yet they have made it beautiful (Ivory). The courts are not factions to join but approaches to adopt as circumstances require.
Together, Lord Horn and Lady Ivory maintain the boundary between the Waking World and Grimmloch, guardians of every moonlit glade and still pool that serves as gateway. They do not compete; they complement. One cannot exist without the other, for what use is truth without beauty to make it bearable, or beauty without truth to give it substance? When dreamers cross the threshold, both gates open—the question is not which gate you choose, but which one you see.
Luminaries: Lord Horn and Lady Ivory
Lord Horn and Lady Ivory are the dual rulers of the Aelfyn Sith, each presiding over one of the two courts. They are guardians of the boundary between Grimmloch and the Waking World, keepers of the dreamworld gateways.
Liminal Aspect: Dreamworld Gateways
Lord Horn and Lady Ivory hold dominion over the spaces where dreamers enter and leave Grimmloch: moonlit glades, enchanted meadows, alder groves, and natural portals like tree hollows or still pools that reflect other realms.