Rinter is our new sans-serif typeface, inspired by Swiss modernism and infused with a tech flare.
Weights
Regular
Rinter is our new sans-serif typeface, inspired by Swiss modernism and infused with a tech flare. Derived from the root word Rint (meaning “to work hard” or “to toil”), Rinter is designed to be the new favorite workhorse font for web and graphic designers.
Inspired by iconic grotesque typefaces like Helvetica and Akzidenz, Rinter pays homage to Swiss modernism while introducing a modern twist through sharp corners and inktraps.
It’s free for both personal and commercial use.
Language Support
Africaans, Albanian, Catalan, Croatian, Czech, Danish, Dutch, Estonian, Finnish, German, Hungarian, Icelandic, Italian, Latvian, Lithuanian,Maltese, Norwegian,Polish, Portugese, Romanian, Serbian, Slovak, Slovenian, Spanish, Swedish, Turkish, Welsh
Test me out!
Test me out!
24pt
Evening crept in slowly, wrapping the city in a soft, dusky blue. Streetlights flickered awake one by one, casting golden pools onto cracked sidewalks. Somewhere nearby, a bus hissed to a stop, its engine sighing as weary passengers stepped off, their faces worn by the day\'s labor and its quiet victories. Above them, the first stars blinked shyly into existence, barely piercing the haze of the urban sky.
In a narrow alleyway, a stray cat slinked between overflowing trash bins, its movements fluid and silent. Its eyes, sharp and curious, caught every flicker of motion. It lived a life of secrets and shortcuts, a small sovereign in a world built too large for it. Somewhere in the distance, a saxophone cried out — a lonesome sound that echoed between buildings like the memory of something lost.
Inside a second-floor apartment, Elena thumbed through an old photo album. Dust motes spun lazily in the lamplight as she turned each page with delicate reverence. Black-and-white memories smiled up at her: birthdays, road trips, nameless days spent laughing under the sun. She lingered over one image, tracing the outline of a younger self who seemed so certain of the road ahead. For a moment, a bittersweet smile touched her lips.
At the corner diner, the night crowd trickled in. Truck drivers, late-shift nurses, insomniac students — all found their way to cracked vinyl booths and steaming mugs of coffee. The jukebox in the corner whirred and clicked, sending an old love song drifting across the room. Grease popped on the griddle. A waitress with a kind smile and tired eyes balanced plates with practiced grace. Here, time softened. Conversations blended with the clinking of silverware, weaving a low, familiar hum.
Out on the river, a single boat bobbed under the iron bridge, its lantern swaying in the breeze. The water, black as ink, reflected the glittering city skyline in smudged, trembling strokes. A pair of lovers leaned against the railing, speaking in whispers that only the river could hear. Their words weren\'t important — it was the closeness, the shared breath, the silent promise that tonight, at least, they belonged to each other.
Further down, in a dimly lit workshop, an artist bent over a canvas, lost in a world only he could see. His fingers were stained with paint, and his brow furrowed in concentration. Each brushstroke was a prayer, a battle, a confession. Around him, unfinished sculptures and splashes of color crowded the room, chaotic and beautiful. He did not notice the passing of hours; he lived entirely inside the moment, inside the wild beating heart of creation.
Evening crept in slowly, wrapping the city in a soft, dusky blue. Streetlights flickered awake one by one, casting golden pools onto cracked sidewalks. Somewhere nearby, a bus hissed to a stop, its engine sighing as weary passengers stepped off, their faces worn by the day\'s labor and its quiet victories. Above them, the first stars blinked shyly into existence, barely piercing the haze of the urban sky.
In a narrow alleyway, a stray cat slinked between overflowing trash bins, its movements fluid and silent. Its eyes, sharp and curious, caught every flicker of motion. It lived a life of secrets and shortcuts, a small sovereign in a world built too large for it. Somewhere in the distance, a saxophone cried out — a lonesome sound that echoed between buildings like the memory of something lost.
Inside a second-floor apartment, Elena thumbed through an old photo album. Dust motes spun lazily in the lamplight as she turned each page with delicate reverence. Black-and-white memories smiled up at her: birthdays, road trips, nameless days spent laughing under the sun. She lingered over one image, tracing the outline of a younger self who seemed so certain of the road ahead. For a moment, a bittersweet smile touched her lips.
At the corner diner, the night crowd trickled in. Truck drivers, late-shift nurses, insomniac students — all found their way to cracked vinyl booths and steaming mugs of coffee. The jukebox in the corner whirred and clicked, sending an old love song drifting across the room. Grease popped on the griddle. A waitress with a kind smile and tired eyes balanced plates with practiced grace. Here, time softened. Conversations blended with the clinking of silverware, weaving a low, familiar hum.
Out on the river, a single boat bobbed under the iron bridge, its lantern swaying in the breeze. The water, black as ink, reflected the glittering city skyline in smudged, trembling strokes. A pair of lovers leaned against the railing, speaking in whispers that only the river could hear. Their words weren\'t important — it was the closeness, the shared breath, the silent promise that tonight, at least, they belonged to each other.
Further down, in a dimly lit workshop, an artist bent over a canvas, lost in a world only he could see. His fingers were stained with paint, and his brow furrowed in concentration. Each brushstroke was a prayer, a battle, a confession. Around him, unfinished sculptures and splashes of color crowded the room, chaotic and beautiful. He did not notice the passing of hours; he lived entirely inside the moment, inside the wild beating heart of creation.
250pt
BERLIN
PARIS
MADRID
OSAKA
DETROIT
BERLIN
PARIS
MADRID
OSAKA
DETROIT
50pt
The rain started just after noon, a slow drizzle that blurred the outlines of the world. Cars moved cautiously through the wet streets, windshield wipers swishing in hypnotic rhythm. Pedestrians huddled under umbrellas or dashed from door to door, collars turned up and shoes splashing through shallow puddles. It was the kind of rain that made time feel slower, as if the sky itself had decided the day should stretch a little longer.
In a small cafe near the train station, Mira stirred her tea absentmindedly, eyes unfocused as she stared through the foggy window. The steam from her cup curled around her face like a whisper, warm and comforting. Outside, people moved with purpose, but inside, the air was still. Jazz played low from a dusty speaker near the ceiling. A man at the corner table typed furiously on a laptop, while an elderly couple shared a slice of pie in companionable silence.
Mira opened her journal and began to write, not about anything in particular—just whatever surfaced. Thoughts wandered across the page like footprints in the sand. Sometimes coherent, often not. She found a strange kind of peace in it, as if the act of writing could clarify something inside her, something murky and tangled. A part of her wished she could explain that to someone, but she knew she wouldn\\\\\\\'t. Some things were meant to stay quiet.
The rain started just after noon, a slow drizzle that blurred the outlines of the world. Cars moved cautiously through the wet streets, windshield wipers swishing in hypnotic rhythm. Pedestrians huddled under umbrellas or dashed from door to door, collars turned up and shoes splashing through shallow puddles. It was the kind of rain that made time feel slower, as if the sky itself had decided the day should stretch a little longer.
In a small cafe near the train station, Mira stirred her tea absentmindedly, eyes unfocused as she stared through the foggy window. The steam from her cup curled around her face like a whisper, warm and comforting. Outside, people moved with purpose, but inside, the air was still. Jazz played low from a dusty speaker near the ceiling. A man at the corner table typed furiously on a laptop, while an elderly couple shared a slice of pie in companionable silence.
Mira opened her journal and began to write, not about anything in particular—just whatever surfaced. Thoughts wandered across the page like footprints in the sand. Sometimes coherent, often not. She found a strange kind of peace in it, as if the act of writing could clarify something inside her, something murky and tangled. A part of her wished she could explain that to someone, but she knew she wouldn\\\\\\\'t. Some things were meant to stay quiet.
