Rynthae

Rynthae.



A name which, to me, holds great meaning, but to others may seem a jumble of letters. Between sleep and waking I roam worlds both dark and serene, a jagged sword at my side. The Cursed Sword of Nyl. One name stands out in stark contrast to the ever-changing landscape of dreams: Rynthae. My name, I know instinctually.



In my dreams, Rynthae’s home is a broken down fortress, long ago abandoned. It’s once-vaulted ceilings lay open to the twilight sky now, and vines make their way up the stone walls, slowly pulling walls apart with time. The keep overlooks a tumultuous sea, spray fuming up along the cliffs in a desperate, yet futile attempt to overrun them. Behind is a forest which all know better than to enter. To anyone else, it is a place where only death can be found.



Within the sword lies Faeruun, my only companion -- the spirit of the deadly forest, sealed away into the cold metal long ago, against his will. His fury lies buried in the steel, tempered only in the binding which holds him.



And I… even as Rynthae,  there are memories just out of reach swarming in my mind. A young prince who once lived in the castle, now being reclaimed by the earth. A great disaster which swept this place. And fear. So much fear. A kingdom dissolved.



Perhaps some things are better left forgotten.