Celaeno

Celaeno, the Plague Harpy, is a figure of dread even among the grim courtiers of Carrion and Decomposition. Her feathers are a mottled black and green, ragged with age and disease, and her wings reek with the stench of rot. Where other harpies lure with beauty turned sour, Celaeno has no such mask—her visage is gaunt, her eyes sunken with a sickly yellow glow, and her claws crusted with dried blood and filth. Yet she carries herself with a terrible majesty, her voice a rasping caw that commands flocks of scavengers as though she were the embodiment of carrion itself. The air around her is thick with flies and spores, and her very shadow seems to crawl with vermin.   She is known as the Keeper of the Pestilent Flock, a title given to her by the Eldest Oak of the Court of Blight but sanctified by the Myconid lords of Carrion and Decomposition. This flock, a swirling host of lesser harpies and carrion birds, is said to be bound to her blood. Each creature bears her mark—eyes clouded with the same yellow pallor, wings blackened at the edges by rot. They serve as spies, scavengers, and executioners, descending upon fields of battle to feast and spread infection. To see them circling overhead is to know the court’s eye is upon you, and that pestilence is not far behind.   Legends claim Celaeno was once one of the original harpy sisters, spawned from cursed sirens who betrayed the Old Gods. She wandered the borderlands of The Feywild, feeding on corpses and plague pits, until she discovered kinship with the Court of Carrion and Decomposition. There, among rot and spore, she was elevated into a position of reverence, not for beauty or guile, but for her mastery of pestilence. It is said she drank deep from the stagnant pools of the Carrion Mire and sang until the water itself turned to pus, earning her the title “Plague Harpy.” From that moment on, her song has not bewitched hearts but rotted lungs and blackened blood.   In courtly politics, Celaeno is both feared and tolerated. She is not subtle in her affections; when displeased, she looses her flock to circle above the offender’s villa, a silent warning that can last days before the storm of beaks and claws descends. Yet her loyalty to the Court is unwavering, and her pestilent flock serves as both shield and scourge, ensuring no insult or slight against the court goes unpunished. When the Masquerade of Withering Splendor is held, her flock lines the rafters, croaking and shrieking like heralds of death, their presence ensuring that all remember decay is never far from joy.   Celaeno is more than an executioner—she is a reminder of inevitability. Where the fey revel in beauty, trickery, or mystery, she embodies the certainty of rot and ruin. To look upon her is to see what all things become: carrion, picked clean, a feast for the flock. For this reason, many in the Feywild speak her name only in whispers, for fear that a feather, a shriek, or the buzzing of flies will herald her coming.