The following information can be learned from doing a gather information check on Reinhalt in the Clerk’s Ward of Sigil:

You step into the smoky tavern and find your way to a table at the back where a drink and a pale wormlike man are waiting for you. He is wearing somber courtiers clothing, and has stringy hair and bags under his eyes.

He motions for you to sit, “So, you want to know about that pompous gasbag Umborian? I'll tell you what,” he says, fidgeting with a signet ring on his left hand, “first drink’s on me, and I'll tell you what you want to know for free, ‘cause you look like the sort that’ll cause him trouble.” “You’re probably thinking I’ve got a chip on my shoulder, and you’re right,” he said, smiling widely as he continued to fidget, “I want to see that smug know-it-all knocked down a peg. Yeah, so I'm happy to dish dirt on him to anyone who’ll listen. You just didn't hear it from me, got it?”

He readjusts himself in his seat to lean forward with his hands clasped. “So, what do I know, you’re wondering. Well, I'll tell you. I've known that slime bag ever since he started practicing law. I say practicing, but I mean manipulating. He wants the world to think he’s an upstanding, principled, model barrister, a real gentleman’s lawyer who’s in it for the game. But he's as crooked as they come. You watch your back if you’re dealing with him. He’ll break his word and stab you in the back as sure as my teeth are yellow.”

The man pauses to show the evidence of his teeth.

“Unless you’re his client that is. I will say this, he gets results. I have to admit that. He’ll win a case. Yeah, he will. Or make it disappear. And the witnesses too. If you’re his client, he’s loyal to a fault, and’ll have you feelin’ like a god. But I put emphasis here, listen. If you are his client. Present tense. Got that? That loyalty ends with the client relationship. Friends? Pshh, don't make me spit my ale.”

“Okay. Alright. Sit down. So you want to know something juicy. I know you’re not here for professional trash talking. I'm only giving you an idea of the sort of man he is, and how he operates. I'm getting to the good stuff.”

He takes a sip of his ale before continuing.

“I've looked into him, you see. I mean, I've known him since he was green, and I've dug stuff up before he could bury it permanent-like. I'm sure you already know he’s a dragon blood, he's not shy about reminding you of that. And I’m sure you already know he’s a member of the Fated with some magic tricks up his sleeve. Hell, that's all practically on his business card for Pelor’s sake. But, I bet you didn't know he’s not from Sigil. Sure, he wears the finest clothing, and acts like he was born and raised here by some draconic nobles or some hogwash, with a silver spoon in his mouth. But, you want to know the truth?” He leans even closer.

“He’s from some shit-hole village in some shit-hole prime world. Better-yet,” he licks his lips, “Umborian isn't even his real name. He stole it. Took it from a dead man. A man he killed,” he whispers, “His owner.” He says the final words with a guffaw, and sits back cackling like he’s told a wonderful joke. “Can you believe it? That righteous, thinks-he’s-so-grand puff is a dirty, worm-eaten, murderous slave. Less than that, he’s an outcast, orphan bastard. You see, the reason he and his mum were slaves is ‘cause she was a dragon-blood too. But unlike him,” he starts, “Oh dear, I'm laughing so hard my eyes are watering. Excuse me.”

He wipes his eyes with a kerchief.

“Where was I? Oh yeah. But unlike him, she wasn't so clean-cut. From what I hear, she was some sort of monstrosity. Some disgusting mix of woman and beast, hated by everyone in that little shit-hole they lived in. Apparently they used to beat her, and throw stones at them,” he chuckles, “Oh, it's just so delicious I can't help myself. Anyway, she died when he was young. You ask me, that's why he’s got such a stick up his arse about that draconic rights tripe. He's got some complex. If you want to hurt him. I mean really get under his skin, and hurt him. That's where my money’s at. Anyway, drink’s on me. I love telling that story. Have another round,” he says, standing and brushing down his shirt, “I have an arraignment to get to.”

Reinhalt’s Journal