On the edges of the Autumncrest, flowing down from Astrazalian is the once ruined bastion of Harrowhome.  A piecemeal, patchwork fortress of scorched stone and new construction, this half-sunken memorial is a testament to an ages old war and a memory not forgotten.

  The walls of Harrowhome remember the battle that carved the Autumn Court into being, and beyond its walls it welcomed every creature upended and scarred by war.  And continue to do so to this day.  
  Any wanderer that walks under its arches and through its gates, no matter their make or manner, will be treated to a warm bed, a hearty meal, and a safe rest.  You see, even before the Autumn, Harrowhome was a place of spirits.  Not haunted, mind you, but inhabited and cared for by creatures long dead.  Spirits of cooks, caretakers, healers, and one particularly crotchety jarl care for its visitors as if they were their own citizens.  
  Not going to lie, it is a bit off-putting at first.  Seeing the smiling, humming halfling maid that floats through the wall carrying a platter of fine kippers and tea as she drifts over to your bedside and kisses your forehead goodnight.  
And yet, Harrowhome is a place of comfort.  Weary travelers find assured rest within its walls without trickery (though the child ghosts can be a little mischievous); visiting guilds catch their breath and count their coin; and even an occasional warlord takes up residence once in a while.
  But any who pass through know the laws.  I - No violence will be willfully committed within the city's walls, not by its keepers nor its visitors.  II - Under no circumstances will these halls or their denizens be exorcised, for this place is under the watch of the Erlking, and thou will not rob him of his subjects, lest they wish to join the Wild Hunt themselves.

Passage through the Wildes can be treacherous and unpredictable for the uninitiated.  Rampant quicklings, enchanted campfires, giant mimics, and roaming primal spirits are commonplace under this aurora sky.  
  Nicholas Falanel, an old tortle of kind face and dreadful past, used his blessings in the arcane and survival to construct minute, portable waystations.  He would call these more accurately - totems.  Tiny pockets of neutral energy, these carved wood and stone spires would rest on either side of a beaten path no more than ten feet wide, planted at 10 foot intervals.  The resulting network of short-form, concentrated abjuration could hold at bay any number of malevolent Fey or Undead creatures.  
  But the totems are difficult to construct.  Though Nick has attempted to pass on his techniques, Wayfarers are a rare branch of an extremely rare sect, so the old tortle appears to be on his own for this endeavor.  That doesn't stop "Old Nick", though, and many a traveler has seen him tending to one of his seven Waystations across the Wildes - collecting more materials on his quest to connect the Feywild for any who may wander its beautiful and dangerous landscape.  
  Stop by for a tune or three, and a bowl of gumbo for thee.  And remember the skies before the Harrowed be true; we will always open our doors to you.  

In terms of raw defenses and hit points, the Yeth Hound isn't that intimidating, but make sure you're packing something silver.  Their physical stats (Strength, Dexterity, and Constitution) are noticeably high, but they're dumb as a post most of the time.  
Where they become truly dangerous is in their unnatural, creepy mobility and their dreaded "Baleful Baying" howl ability.  The thing's got a 300 foot range, so make sure your Wisdom is decent before engaging with one.  If you happen to be one of the unlucky low rollers against the howl, that frightened condition does a lot more for the Yeth than it does for you, stacking on extra psychic damage for its scared victims.  And I can't blame them; the image of this thing bearing down on you is NOT pleasant.
  As an aside, I was actually very intrigued to write about this thing.
​There is something wholly unnerving about these large Fey doggos with humanoid faces, who creepily hover overhead and paralyze prey with their baleful howl.  It's just such an unsettling image.  Add on to this the fact that as long as it's on the same plane as its master, it can ALWAYS contact it telepathically.  Woof, buddy.

Sleep well, travelers.
​-Adamus

Mab, the Queen of Air and Darkness, is not to be left waiting.  To do so is to incur the wrath of one of the oldest and most powerful Archfey in existence.  And yet, this exact insult is the crux of a Quickling's lineage.
  Once a race of egotistical, lazy, and narcissistic Fey, these gluttonous creatures ignored and delayed a summons one too many from their great Queen.  So, as an Archfey is want to do, she cursed them.
  Their tall frames were shrunk to tiny sprites.  Their slow minds quickened to an alarming, maddening speed.  These Fey, under their new life, would never be late again, the insolence of their hubris burned into the fibers of their being.

Unlike other entries, the Quickling's Faerunian lore fits perfectly already into the core concepts and forces that rule my Feywild and its regions.  The only adjustment here may be in the relationship of the Quickling's curse.  
  While I am certain that some Quicklings worship their Queen openly, I would assume that many harbor a great ill will toward the Queen, and a great fear to never act on it.  I, being a cruel world-builder, have woven a long, manipulated memory into the Quickling that spins the Queen's actions as an act of salvation.
  The lazy Fey would certainly have perished without her "blessing," so they worship and serve her without question.  In fact, the most zealous and devout Quicklings will create "orders" and guilds in direct service to the Winter Court so as to gain the Queen's favor.  Such favor achieved...is rare, and if ever it happens, THAT Quickling may actually last in a one-on-one fight.  
So if a chill breeze follows a Quickling, exercise caution if you mean to chase it into the Deep Wood.

See you in the forest.
-Adamus

Source: Quicklings and their official 5th Edition attributes can be found in Volo's Guide To Monsters, published by Wizards of the Coast.

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Settings: Ionian Feywild, Faerun, D&D in general

  On the neutral grounds of the Fey Court, many lords and ladies hold special stations.  Some employ or barter their own personal bards, cooks, and butlers from the denizens of the Wylds, or from the ranks of foolish travelers that wander into their theaters.  For if a creature does their job well, a Fey will often covet such skill, adopting it into their folds for future use and entertainment.  
  Most of the time, the subjects are unwilling participants in this display of power, and depending on the season, their servitude is short-lived, for The Accords must be maintained while the trade routes are open.  But some...subjects...feel a calling to remain, and for these willing mortals, great positions of power await.  This is a path to Knighthood under the Queens of the Air and Fire, or to swell the ranks of The Wild Hunt.  And to others, another position awaits.  Someone to tend the gardens and landscapes of the grand, opulent noble manors, and, when needed, cull the flock.
  If the subtext is not yet clear, these "Gardeners" serve a dual purpose.  As with so many facets of the Fey, there is always a darker side to the coin, and these otherwise calculating taskmasters are universally feared among the Courts.  If ever you are invited to a Lady or Lord's home and find yourself alone with their Gardener, one is advised to exit the premises as soon as possible, leaving the way you came in.  A noble should always greet you themselves to allow passage into their home; if they do not, another might deem you a threat.  Remember, a Gardener's job is to keep the grounds safe and tidy.  Little pests cannot be allowed to roam.
  So when you invariably find yourself lost and alone in a vibrant, intoxicating floral maze of high thorns and broad bush, remember...we warned you.  Your blood is their water, your flesh their fertilizer, so don't be surprised by the knife as it plunges deep with a twist, nor of the sprouting red mushrooms that bubble up around your corpse.  For every garden needs tending, and new children need to eat...

And with that terrible thought...sleep well and I'll see you at the table.
​-Adamus