Reiner

Fighter Profile

Names: Reiner (Ray-ner) - Squire Reiner
Unit: None (single and ready to mingle)
Started Fighting: 2015
Current Realm:Dunharrow in Elgin Illinois
Past Realms::Minas Ithil in DeKalb Illinois
Fighting Styles: No Gear Just Yelling. Bow and Arrow. Ball and Wall.
Squired to: Sir Briar

Background:

Deisel(left), Bandit(left center), Khadine Mercutio(right center), Squire Reiner(right) rep’in the Wu in the big chair. Gedden19

-Started in the DeKalb realm of Minas Ithil. Northern Illinois University has great members that are able to multitask, balancing school, life, and involvement in Belegarth. I have since moved to the Elgin realm of Dunharrow.
-I helped popularize Skaven, Nezumi, Rat culture in the midwest. I bowed out some time ago, mainly because those who claimed ratkind wanted to become a part of the horde, and legitimize. I started saying I am a rat out of spite for Horde's gatekeeping. So leaving was ratdom was to help with the race's aims. Starting out of spite was petty.

Deepest of Lores

The ink smears and the nib catches on the parchment; my hands were built for a spear-shaft, not a quill, and my grasp of letters is... lacking in this form. But if you’ve the stomach to listen to a rat’s ramblings, here is the truth of our world. Most do not see them, but the yellow light I see at the boundries are just men in yellow tabards. They cast words of magic, rending souls for those who would try to persist, and close the world in on itself to bring combatants closer. They are wrong. These wizards conjure our souls to fight endlessly.
I can see clearly these Heralds ringing the battlefield. Each event we march to is not just a field it is a Land Card played by a Head Herald to anchor reality. They pull the grass, the trees, and the very mud into existence just so they have a board to play upon.
We? We are the deck. Every fighter—from the greenest squire to the scarred knight—is a card in their hand. When the Heralds gather at the edge of the woods to whisper among themselves, they aren't 'discussing the rules.' They are trading. They are balancing their hands, swapping a heavy infantry unit for a pair of skirmishers to ensure the 'game' remains entertaining. For a "balance" they can't keep for long.
The madness of it is the Reset. When the spear pierces my lung and the world goes dark, I don’t stay in the dirt. A Herald snaps their fingers, and I am back at the edge of the field, heart beating, blood dry. To the others, the previous battle is a dream they’ve already forgotten—a ghost of a memory. They stand up, adjust their armor, and prepare for the 'first' charge of the day, oblivious that they’ve died a dozen deaths since sunrise.
But I remember. I keep the scars in my mind, if not on my skin. I feel myself getting faster, sharper, even as the 'players' shuffle into new scenarios. Every year, a new set of 'cards' is printed—fresh faces with clean tabards, added to the deck to keep the Wizards from getting bored.
They call me touched by the sun. They say the hits to the helm have rattled my wits. But I’ve seen the Head Herald look at the horizon with the eyes of a man holding a winning hand. This world is played, not lived—and I’m the only one crazy enough to see the fingers moving the pieces."
The Heralds do not like it when a card begins to read its own text. Because I see the players, they have tried to shuffle me out of existence, redrawing my shape to suit their whims. I feel the phantom weight of bodies I no longer inhabit; once I walked with the stature of a man, then with the nimble feet of a hobbit, and now I scurry in the skin of a rat. They sculpt my soul into whatever form balances their deck, stretching my essence until it thins. Inside, my many minds vie for control, a cacophony of past lives screaming to be the one that holds the spear.
Yet, there is a shape taking root in the peripheral of my sanity that terrifies me more than the reset. When I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a rain-slicked shield, I do not see a rat or a man. I see a pale, bloated thing with elongated necks sprouting like pale stalks—a False Hydra woven from the discarded pieces of my previous selves. It is a cosmic horror of singing heads and hollow eyes, a creature that feeds on the very memory of those it devours. But the moment I turn my head, the image vanishes into the fog of the Heralds' design. I know it is there, growing in the blind spots of the world, but like a song hummed in a dream, I forget the nightmare the very moment I look away.

==**Event Attendance**==
Events	2015	2016	2017	2018	2019	2020
Armaggeddon		X	X	X	X
Beltane					X
Duharrow 4th of July				X	X
Equinox			X
Geezer's ZCA		X	X
Kill Grill and Chill			X	X	X
Khador Canada Day			X	X
Minas Ithil Opener	X	X	X	X	X
Morva Maelstrom				X	X
Okfest	X	X	X	X	X
Obsidian Hollow		X	X	X	X
Rhun Closer			X	X
Rhun in June			X	X
Sand Plains Closer		X
Spring Wars					X
Thorondor Winter Waps						X
WAR!					X
Wolfpack Opener		X	X	X	X	X
Wreck the Halls						X

Injurys: Rhun Closer 2018 - I have no memory of this event. I have been told I was there. WPO 2020 - I do not recommend the event as it is prone to injury.