A sturdy lightfoot halfling with sun-browned skin, quick green eyes, and a neatly trimmed mustache that curls at the ends. He wears practical chain mail under a weathered green cloak, with polished buckles, a medal on a faded ribbon, and a well-kept shield painted with a tiny lance and wheat sheaf. His boots are carefully reinforced for running, and his crossbow is always tuned and wrapped in silk for a quiet shot.

Cheerful, courteous, and unexpectedly daring, Reginald treats danger like an old rival he is determined to outdo. He likes practical jokes, but only the harmless kind, and he is at his best when a frightened crowd needs someone calm, confident, and oddly encouraging. He believes every battle is a story, and he intends to make sure the ending favors the innocent.

Sir Reginald Owlinfeather was never supposed to become a legend. In the hamlet of Brambleford, he was the baker's second son, a quick-footed halfling who could hit a crow's eye with a pebble before the turn of a card. When hobgoblin raiders began shaking down the outlying farms, Reginald took up a borrowed shield, a borrowed spear, and a borrowed title from an old family rhyme, then drove the raiders off a bridge with equal parts courage, luck, and bad aim from his enemies. The village called him Trickshot after that, first as a joke, then as praise, and finally as a promise that trouble could be beaten by someone small enough to slip through its grasp.