Magiteknomancer

Rinh Starke

Walking forward only because there is nothing left behind.

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Rinh's story contains mentions of self-harm, addiction, near-death, death and other dark themes.

Brume Dweller

A Brief History

Shunned and on the run from his home village, Rinh has taken up residence in the Brume, Ishgard. Living from cot to bottle, he's been staggering his way through life, only taking jobs to fund his addiction.

Having had his aether blocked completely, he earns his gil with manual labour throughout Ishgard.

After war took what little home he was able to carve out among the homeless and weary, he began to study magitek, using it to heal those around him.

Click here for Rinh's basic info, bypassing his lore. To read his story, please scroll further.

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A quick overview and hooks

Notable information

Basic Info

Appearance

Rinh has augmented various parts with magitek to rectify some of the damage done to his body from his childhood.

Life in the Brume

He arrived at the gates of Ishgard heavily bandaged, limbs still numb and ringing hollow; his skin stinging from the aether etched into it. The lines of ink traced along the magical pathways of his arms, burning into already scarred flesh and blocking any aether from surfacing.

The alchemist that had devised the ink buried beneath his skin had hoped for near nullification, but in practice, she’d achieved complete negation. Rinh was as mundane as could be. His aether was gone, along with the possibility of ending more lives.

With nothing of value to his name and no access to his aether, he approached the Forgotten Knight as a vagrant, hopeful for labour jobs. He spent his days working for various merchants and his nights on a straw mattress in one of the many shelters beneath the inn.

The years passed slowly, Rinh’s days as monotonous as the snowfall that was once a novel experience for the Viera born among the trees. He’d find himself at the wall of Ishgard at the end of a long day of physical labour, staring out over the drop, nose burning from the cold. It was only these lonely moments that he’d let himself remember, to regret.

Rinh had been in Ishgard for nearly two decades when he was first joined at the wall. Sébastien Starke was a bastard son of the low-born family Baudelaire. He had only just returned to Ishgard from a trip to Thanalan to replenish his breeding stock, eager for an ale and relaxation at the Forgotten Knight. Instead, he found a morose Viera, his eyes locked on the swirling mists below.

They didn’t speak that night, nor the handful that followed, but eventually after many shared nights looking back toward Dragonhead, they broached conversation. Communication was slow; burns had ravaged more than just his skin, leaving him hard of hearing, but Sébastien was patient.

Rinh stayed quiet about his past, only revealing his arrival to Ishgard and his work for the merchants of the Crozier. Sébastien was equally cagey about his past as a dragoon of Ishgard, but was eager to talk about his work with racing chocobos, able to ramble for hours about the various birds under his care. The obvious love the Elezen had for his chocobos began to warm something within Rinh.

Their friendship grew over the next few years as Sébastien brought Rinh to visit his breeding stables, traveled to Thanalan together and began to teach him the intricacies of caring for the large birds. Rinh found himself feeling happiness once again, the emotion having been lost to him along with his family. But as he looked at Sébastien over the back of the Elezen’s prized chocobo Nylah, Rinh realized he’d allowed himself to love once more.

Their handfasting was a quiet affair, a simple ceremony in their small walk-up apartment in the Crozier. Rinh gave Sébastien his heart and took the Elezen’s name proudly. Their life was simple but full of love and peace. They built their lives over the next eight years, with more love each day than the one before.

Then the draft papers came.

Ishgard required all able bodied fighters on the front lines. The dragons were encroaching upon her lands and the people must be defended. It was with a soul-deep sigh that Sébastien once again picked up the lance.

Rinh saw the man off with a long and desperate kiss and an even more anxious embrace. Promises of letters and demands of safety were made between quick kisses and pressed into necks until finally Sébastien stepped backwards and towards the caravan headed to the frontlines.

Letters passed between the two for the next three years, their pages filled with encouragements, well-wishes and promises of devotion. Sébastien wrote of his fears and observations from the war, his eagerness to be home, his gut-wrenching terror that he might never be. Rinh spoke of faith, belief in a speedy return and a few quips about how Nylah dearly missed the Elezen, as if the Viera didn’t miss his husband at all.

When the letters stopped, Rinh first kept optimistic. Perhaps the letter-runners had trouble, maybe the mail had been lost. Months passed with no contact before a knock at their front door echoed clear through to Rinh’s bones. The Elezen at the door was sullen-faced and with only a somber nod, handed a small box of ashes to Rinh before offering condolences that fell on deaf ears.

It had been fourteen years since Rinh moved back to the straw cots of the Brume, his home he’d built with Sébastien cold and forgotten. The only remnant of his old life was the aging Nylah he kept stabled nearby. He spent the stipend given to him as a widower of the war on the stables' fees and alcohol, chasing the burn of a shattered heart with the heat of whiskey. His days were a blur, smudged together into one putrid mess of drunkeness, depression and self-hatred.

His aether-inked skin now carried more scars. Jagged ridges from fingernails and clean lines from a dagger’s blade, relics from misery-filled nights spent trying to dig the pigments from his skin.

What small amount of food he was able to stomach was lost on the cobble, fingers bloodied, and he sobbed. He wept for his lost Sébastien, how must he have felt in his last moments, the terror, the resignation. Rinh dug his fingers deeper as he cried, angry at the marks along his skin.

He was trained in white magic, he could have helped, he could have been by Sébastien’s side on the front. If only Rinh had been better, stronger, able to control his magic, would Sébastien still live?

He curled up, limbs weak from pain and lack of nourishment, and screamed into his folded arms, lamenting the family he’d murdered and the husband he’d left for dead.

It started the way it tended to, for Rinh. It had started with a walk through the Crozier, blurry eyes seeking the windows that he could still imagine Sébastien throwing wide with a smile, declaring it a beautiful day and one perfect for getting their shopping done. It had started with Rinh stumbling to the side with grief, hand grasping at stone to steady himself as he failed to remember the exact curve of the man’s grin, the way his eyes crinkled just-so at the corners.

And it ended the way it always did, for Rinh. Him, drunk in the Forgotten Knight, cup of something dark and potent clutched in a weak hand, the drink tucked close as he slumped over the table. Bleary gaze locked on the fireplace, trying to summon the strength to raise up enough for another drink because the memories were still there, the moments of joy he’d made with Sébastien, the sound of Sinha’s pealing laughter, the remembered warmth of his mother’s embrace.

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Today and onward

Rinh lay nearly asleep at his usual table in the Forgotten Knight, cheek pressed into the worn wood and a cup of some new brew Gibrillont had aged held weakly in a limp hand. He was exhausted in all forms, having spent the day with the machinists trying to put to practice his theories for their tech but being shut down every time. He was so close to a breakthrough and he needed something, anything, to work out.

His eyes stung from trying to focus on blueprints, the headache digging behind them and pulsing through his skull along with his heartbeat. What little sound he could make out had been drowned out by dull roaring since the noon bells. His fingers trembled as he gripped the cup in an aborted urge to take a drink, the effort of rising becoming too much. He rolled his neck, pressing his eyes into his forearm, the pressure causing spots to blink across his vision but relieving some small bit of pain.

He glared at the spectacles dropped haphazardly next to his cup, blurry as they were. He’d need to tackle his vision before anything else, the amount that the headaches alone hindered him would be setting him back ages. He’d heard of Garlean activity encroaching on alliance territory, they’d achieved great things with their magitek, perhaps if he…

“It seems that you’re still fighting your past demons.” The words cut through the general din of the bar as if being spoken directly to Rinh and he bit back a tired scoff. The voice was like the swirling mists surrounding Ishgard, gentle but with an added bite of mysticism and showmanship, no doubt for the patron sitting at her table. The Viera woman was small, judging by her kneeling in the chair to properly see the tarot cards she’d spread over the surface. She turned a card, the gilded back reflecting the firelight and she placed it with a quiet snap of cardstock, raising up a bit to see the face. “Perhaps a lost love troubles you, one you seek to regain?” The words cut deep even though they were meant for the young Hyur at the neighbouring table and this time Rinh did scoff, the sound drawing the shadowed gaze from the Viera fortune-teller. She turned back to her patron to finish the reading, her voice lower in volume this time though she cast curious glances at the nearly-asleep Rinh.

He rolled his neck once more, burying his nose into the crook of his elbow, fingers reflexively tensing around his cup at the flare of pain the movement brought. The clamour of the Knight began to swell in sore ears before it culminated back into a familiar roar. He let his mind drift, bouncing between his calculations, prospective changes to current blueprints, the syncopation error with-

“I usually charge for readings, but since you seem so eager…”

Ophelia Kisne didn’t read his cards that day, nor the day, week, month after. Instead she sat with him at the Knight, Rinh bent over sketches and equations and her with a foot on the seat of her chair and a well-worn journal braced on her knee. Instead she walked with him to the stables to care for Nylah, eager to meet the aging chocobo and learn the intricacies of caring for one.

Instead, she pulled a blade from bloodied fingers, her own pressing daylight-warm aether into open flesh to seal the wound, brushing sweat-soaked bangs from clammy skin with a soothing hum as he wept. Instead, she stood still and calm as he raged, shattered bottles scattered about the ground as his seething anger turned to gut-wrenching sobs, soft encouragements unending until he no longer flinched from her approach and touch, until he accepted a hug with a shuddering gasp.

Ophelia Kisne didn’t read his future, but she began to shape it. She began to shine light on the possibility of having one.

His first magitek breakthrough was staggering. Being able to wake up and not need to flail an arm around for his spectacles, being able to work throughout the day without blinding headaches even with his eyewear, was monumental. It was a slight setback as numbers no longer looked the same and letters became more complicated, but he would trade any bit of relearning for lesser pain, for ease and comfort. It was with his new lenses that he was able to finally take in the somber beauty of Ishgard, the exact shade of silver in Ophelia’s eyes, and the way her cheeks dusted pink just-so as she spoke of the excitable auspice she’d met.

His second came shortly after, though a trip was made to meet with Cid Garlond for final revisions. With this advancement, he could hear once more, though the sounds seemed a bit tinny, they were audible. He found himself becoming overwhelmed more easily, the world seeming a bit too close after long days and he’d end up at the Knight those nights, the magitek disc pulled from the base of his skull as he let the familiar dull roar envelop him once more.

He still dreamed of one day reviving his aether, perhaps bypassing aetheric channels if needed. He still sat at his usual table in the Knight, kohl stained fingers pressing into his temple as he worked through another mathematical equation. Though now, with his eyesight and hearing restored to a level he hadn’t known for nearly fifty years, he was venturing more outside the walls of Ishgard, constantly on alert for any bit of magitek scrap, Allagan relics or forgotten machina.

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• Suggestive/NSFW
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