Picture. A fae brewery. All of the casks made with beautiful wood taken from the sacred forests. The wheat plucked from elven hair.
Nothing here is iron, but they bind their barrels with vines and make their machines out of flint and diamond. Their spirits ferment with the spirits of the humans taken.
When they finish after hundreds of years, they are made of golden amber and glistening honey.
Each one ensnares the mind, making you fall in and out of love, making you see those not living, those making you obey and those making you forget.
Now the changelings aren't the innocent children anymore, but those who are at the ends for their times, hanging on in back alleys and seedy establishments.
The fae are disguised as connoisseurs, but what they are really examining and taking a taste of are those humans that are more than just prey,
those with the poise in their step and the madness in their speech. Those who can become fae.
When they taste of the eternal elixir, they go on with their new friends and lovers, cavorting about tasting them all and putting their souls into the beer.
They sit around the brewery, which now looks more like an infinite forest,
and they speak with the practiced ease of those who have done something their whole life and know more about the art of corruption, rot, and fermentation than a human could possibly imagine.