Raelanthir Suril — Rae to anyone who has stood beside him in a fight — did not choose the Nentir Vale. It chose him, in the way that ancient magic does: without warning, without explanation, and with no obvious way back.

In Silverymoon, he had been a student of the blade and the arcane arts in equal measure, the kind of city that rewards exactly that combination. He studied by day and practiced by night, blending spellwork into swordplay until the two became inseparable. He was good at it, and he knew it — not arrogantly, but with the quiet confidence of someone who has done the work. Then one evening, drawn to a secluded chamber in the High Palace, he gazed into an ancient ornate mirror and the world came apart around him.

He woke up on a forest floor in the Nentir Vale with foreign stars overhead and no idea where he was.

What followed was a rapid education in adaptation. He helped a group of travelers fend off bandits and earned a guide to Fallcrest. He proved his worth to Lord Warden Faren Markelhay through early action rather than long speeches. He found, in the temple of Sehanine Moonbow, the unmistakable presence of Selûne — his goddess, wearing a different name in a different land — and understood that he had not been entirely abandoned. He built relationships, took on work, and became, over time, something the city recognized as useful and trustworthy.

Then he fell in with the Copper Piece Gang, and things got considerably more complicated.

Rae functions as the party’s arcane anchor — the one whose blade carries spells, whose Aegis locks down the battlefield, and whose intelligence makes him dangerous in ways that don’t always announce themselves immediately. He is calm under pressure, methodical in a fight, and privately still processing what it means to be stranded in a world that was not built for him. His faith in Selûne is not performative. It is load-bearing.

The loss of his arm in the Scarlet Citadel changed him. What he pulled back out of that ooze-soaked slipstream was not quite the same limb he lost, and what eventually replaced it — through divine intervention tied to the moon goddesses he had served faithfully — was stranger still. He has not entirely decided how he feels about it. The arm works. It is powerful. It is not his. He carries that tension the way he carries most things: quietly, and with it already in hand when it matters.