In the crystalline reaches of the Feywild’s most desolate tundras, the dohwar first learned that words possess more weight than gold. These stout, flightless avian fey possess an uncanny, telepathic hunger for commerce, viewing the multiverse not as a collection of realms but as a vast, interconnected marketplace. To a dohwar, a secret is a commodity and a friendship is a long-term investment. They waddle through the stars in colorful waistcoats that hide a myriad of contracts signed in shimmering, indelible ink, binding the unwary to debts that can span generations. Whether congregating in planar ports or drifting through Wildspace, dohwar operate in tight-knit "exultations." They are relentless hucksters, using psionic intuition to sense a mark's deepest desires before a single word is spoken. Beneath their comical appearance lies a cold, fey pragmatism; a dohwar might sell a map to a dying man’s thirst or trade a child’s laughter for a shimmering, useless trinket. Their morality is purely transactional, governed by a convoluted code that prioritizes the completion of the deal above all mercy. Rumors tell of a dohwar merchant named Obe-Rinn who recently arrived in a drought-stricken village with a crate of "stolen winters." He offers to sell a week of freezing rain, but his price is the "first breath" of every child born during the frost—a debt that leaves the town’s future generations hollow-chested and perpetually cold, bound to a contract they never truly understood.