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Once within the next 10 minutes, the creature can roll the
Gift die and add the number rolled to one ability check,
attack roll or saving throw it attempts. The creature can
wait until after it rolls the d20 before deciding to use
the Gift die, but must decide before the Loremaster says
whether the roll succeeds or fails. Once the Gift die is
rolled, it is lost. A creature may have only one Gift die at
a time.
You can use this feature a number of times equal to your
Charisma modifier (a minimum of once). You regain any
expended uses after a long rest.
Your Gift die increases in size when you reach certain
levels in this class. The die becomes a d8 at 5th level, a
d10 at 10th level and a d12 at 15th level.
Yes. You see Valter.
You're at disadvantage of ranged attacks
”Forward! Cut the head off the serpent, and the body will die!”
Jaunter punctuates his words with deeds, attacking the nearest enemy. He moves to aid his allies; once they are free of immediate threat they can get to Valter, together.
Seeing the battlefield briefly clear of enemy swordsman, Hobwise rushes toward to the line of archers, his bow still drawn. And he fires another arrow at the closest archer, only ten feet away!
Findegil slashes again, and yells.
Wincing as another feathered shaft finds its mark in her leg, Amalina does her best to return the favor sending another arrow at the same banit she struck previously.
Winter arrives alone at the line of archers 60 feet away.
Cereidh draws towards the archer that hit Amalina.
Thorgrim's speech is punctuated as he continues his reaping at the remaining sword-wielders, anxious to thin the ranks enough to take but a moment to clear out the bowmen and get to the one man that might offer a fight!
Jaunter drops the last swordsman.
Four archers continue to fire into the company. The archer trades an Eastern shaft for a Shire arrow with Hobwise.
(Amalina, Anar, Cereidh, Hobwise, Findegil, Jaunter, and Thorgrim)
One archer throws down his bow and defends himself from the dog with a long knife.
Not to be outdone by a halfling's courage, the companions follow Hobwise.
Hobwise winces from the latest blow, but he feels the fury of battle now, and the pain, though mounting, does not weaken his resolve. Indeed, the sight of Valter further emboldens him. He fights by instinct now, having no experience, entrusting his faith in his bow hands to finish the day.
He draws again on the enemy archer he had previously wounded.
Total damage = 13
Seeing the arrow strike true, Hobwise rushes headlong into his foe.
Move action, then Small Folk bonus action to enter the space of the opponent.
Total damage = 12
The Hobbit is a flurry of vengeance. These men who imprisoned him feel wrath this day!
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Amalina and Winter continue to try and thin the archers, hoping to open the way for the other warriors to reach Valter. After the hobbit's vicious and inspired assault, Amalina and the big wolfhound choose the next target in the line. Soon enough a feathered shaft strikes followed by the growling and tearing of flesh as Winter gets the man's leg in the iron-like grip of his big jaws.
Cereidh, with reluctance, moves the bead of her arrow from Valter - still too far away - and instead aims at the archer who just shot Hobwise.
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After dropping the last of the enemy Thorgrim ducks easily at the barbed shaft inaccurately shot at him. He spins Noctiscide once in an easy loop before beginning a headlong CHARGE at the line of archers still standing before them.
"You are to be commended!" he roars at them as his powerful thews churn and pick up speed. "O MANY are the arbalesters that would have realized without a line of sword-wielders before them they are but ripe wheat waiting to be cut down. But NAY! You stand and fight and tang thy yew in steady rhythm DESPITE the armored storm of STEEL that, having slain O many of thy dog-brothers, comes upon you now like death incarnate.
I should like to drink with you in Valhalla, but, as you have slain no one this day, you have not earned thy ferryman's fee, and so must be tornented in hades forever more.
Such a pity," he ends, sending his blade CRASHING against the first archer to taste his STEEL.
Aiming for the thick of the fighting, Findegil advances towards the archers, shield at the ready and blade red!
Hobwise draws again on the enemy archer he had previously wounded. Seeing the arrow strike true, Hobwise rushes headlong into his foe.
Amalina and Winter continue to try and thin the archers, hoping to open the way for the other warriors to reach Valter. After the hobbit's vicious and inspired assault, Amalina and the big wolfhound choose the next target in the line. Soon enough a feathered shaft strikes followed by the growling and tearing of flesh as Winter gets the man's leg in the iron-like grip of his big jaws.
Cereidh, with reluctance, moves the bead of her arrow from Valter - still too far away - and instead aims at the archer who just shot Hobwise.
After dropping the last of the enemy Thorgrim ducks easily at the barbed shaft inaccurately shot at him. He spins Noctiscide once in an easy loop before beginning a headlong CHARGE at the line of archers still standing before them.
Jaunter and Anar approach tactically.
One archer fires at Jaunter.
One archer throws down his bow and defends himself from the dog with a long knife.
Hobwise is feeling pretty bad, but there's nothing to do but fight on and hope that some of the big fighters will reach the front line before he feels that deadly blow. He spits blood and lunges back into the fray.
Small Folk into the space of Archer 4 to gain Advantage on Attack.
His enemy feels cold iron slice deeply into his gut. The bowman doubles over, but does he fall?
Yes. Sorry. Edit didn't work.
Archers 4, 5 and 6 threw down their bows are attacking with knives.
Cereidh shoots at the archer engaged with Hobwise.
Cereidh shifts anxiously, seeing her shot go wide.
Amalina draws for another shot at the archer still engaged with Winter. Just as she's ready to release there's a loud twang and she winces in pain as the bowstring breaks, the whip like strike lashes her arm leaving a fine line of red along her inner arm. "Blast and damn!" She exclaims cursing the shadow filled string as she quickly grabs for her spare knowing precious seconds are ticking away.
In the meantime, Winter continues to tangle with the bandit archer. Teeth flashing as the nimble hound searches for a way through the man's defenses.
Findegil drives on!
"The foe fall!"
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Jaunter grunts as he takes another wound, yet the doughty Man is undaunted. He presses forward, surging with speed and closing with the enemy. He engages the archer that strives against Hobwise. Jaunter feints with a thrust, then turns his stroke into a wicked slash that is sure to leave his enemy badly injured.
"VALTER!", Jaunter bellows, voice carrying through the din of combat.
"You hide behind your men! Face us, craven! We are no easy prey, asleep or frail or weak or untrained! We are mighty Men and Women, Dwarves and Elves! The Free Folk of Rhovanion say thee NAY!"
Hobwise is feeling pretty bad, but there's nothing to do but fight on and hope that some of the big fighters will reach the front line before he feels that deadly blow. He spits blood and lunges back into the fray.
In the meantime, Winter continues to tangle with the bandit archer. Teeth flashing as the nimble hound searches for a way through the man's defenses.
Thorgrim now draws quiet to conserve his strength for the real fight that will soon come. Still he slashes his blade to and fro, like a lumberjack hacking through a copse of trees at the archer that stands so doggedly before him.
Findegil drives on!
Jaunter grunts as he takes another wound, yet the doughty Man is undaunted. He presses forward, surging with speed and closing with the enemy. He engages the archer that strives against Hobwise. Jaunter feints with a thrust, then turns his stroke into a wicked slash that is sure to leave his enemy badly injured.
The archer wall is broken for you. Valter is 30 feet from you rallying his troops.
Hobwise drops his dagger and picks his bow off the ground as he tucks around Thorgrim for a shot. In a swift action, he wipes blood and sweat from his eyes and knocks an arrow, levels it at the approaching menace, and lets fly.
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Amalina moves up thirty paces and sends an arrow streaking toward the cowardly bandit leader. She smiles with grim satisfaction as the barbed tipped shaft strikes true and deep into Valter's side.
With the archer's all down, Winter pauses for a few seconds, waiting for Amalina to catch up. Big tongue hanging to the side as he pants furiously following his initial efforts.
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Jaunter presses forward. He sees, now, an end to this conflict. Without Valter, the bandits will be leaderless, in disarray and vulnerable. This could end the threat of banditry to Rhovanion for years to come. With little heed for his own safety, Jaunter rushes forward, intent on attempting to bring this battle to an end as swiftly as possible.
Valter is attempting to rally his men, but Jaunter will not let that occur.
"Fool! False-tongued pretender! Bringer of woe and folly! Every death on this field, I lay at your feet! I will have you pay that balance, here and now!"
Jaunter sped toward Valter, utilizing his quickness and sliding on the ground, hacking at the would-be outlaw king's legs as he slid. Jaunter used his momentum and sprang up, shield pressed toward the bandit in a defensive posture.
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Thorgrim stands a moment among the dead. Blood covers his armor, from pate to sabatons. Gore and the entrails of his many victims cling to his sword. He breathes, grasping the eye of the maelstrom of battle that swirls about him, and only the corpses of his foes are near.
He raises his head, his eye catching the leader of the band of vagabonds that they clash against this day. Raising high Nocticide, he CHARGES toward the foe, screaming a primordial battle cry. "COWARD! Cur and Betrayer! You have BROKEN the PEACE of this land for the LAST TIME and you shall NOT leave the battlefield THIS DAY!"
Clutching his steel in a mighty grip, he thrusts his blade against the cowardly pretender-king.
= 12
[b]"ONWARDS! ONWARDS TO VICTORY!", roars the knight of Gondor as he rushes forward, eager to hack down the bandit who would be lord.
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Hobwise drops his dagger and picks his bow off the ground as he tucks around Thorgrim for a shot. In a swift action, he wipes blood and sweat from his eyes and knocks an arrow, levels it at the approaching menace, and lets fly.
Amalina moves up thirty paces and sends an arrow streaking toward the cowardly bandit leader. She smiles with grim satisfaction as the barbed tipped shaft strikes true and deep into Valter's side.
Jaunter sped toward Valter, utilizing his quickness and sliding on the ground, hacking at the would-be outlaw king's legs as he slid. Jaunter used his momentum and sprang up, shield pressed toward the bandit in a defensive posture.
Clutching his steel in a mighty grip, he thrusts his blade against the cowardly pretender-king.
Cereidh sends a elven shaft toward Valter, which goes wide.
Valter sees his death at your hands, he turns and runs.
Just as the outlaws seem about to rally, the Beornings start beating their spear-butts on the ground and chanting "Beorn! Beorn! Beorn!" over and over. As the chanting reaches a crescendo, a hulking shape appears at the flank of the Outlaw forces. Beorn has arrived, wearing the shape of a giant bear.
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The end of the battle is nigh. And now, with the approach of Beorn himself, Hobwise spares a sideways glance at the blood-scorned field. Severed limbs are scattered and bodies lay in heaps, one man after another after another, and several by his own hands, are dead whom Hobwise only days before served breakfast. The Hobbit feels a great and unexpected calm wash down on him, as if relieved of a troublesome and inescapable burden.
There is only one thing left to do.
Turning to where Valter is running afield, Hobwise draws back on one final arrow. Later, he would wonder at himself for shooting a fleeing man in the back, but now, in this ultimate moment, he gave it no thought whatsoever. This was Valter the Scourge, and his evil needed to be removed from Middle Earth.
The arrow flies true and hits its mark. Hobwise lowers his bow in exhaustion and drops to one knee, clutching his wounds as he watches his new friends put an end to this horrible business of war.
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Jaunter had slain many enemies in his years on the Earth. He had taken the lives of Orcs, and Goblins, and Trolls, and other foul beings bred to make war on the world of Men. It was, thankfully, only rarely that Jaunter had to bring his skill to bear on a fellow member of the Free Folk.
Until this day, he had never enjoyed it.
Jaunter had killed other Men, but it had always been a grim necessity, a duty. While his heart did not stir to joy at the work he was doing this day, nonetheless he felt a grim sense of satisfaction at shattering the night of this would-be petty king.
”USURPER! BETRAYER! Your end is nigh!”
Jaunter ran at Valter, not content to allow the man to slip away. Jaunter refuses to allow him a chance to rebuild. No, he would have an end to it, today. As he closed, this time he jumped forward, swiping horizontally, aiming for lethality in his stroke, to end the conflict once and for all.
+ = 16
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Thorgrim spares a glance over as the Bear-Beorn at last makes an entrance. "He's a got a fine timing. The battle is already won!" Throgrim observes to no one in particular, feeling it typical that he would show up just as the hard fighting is done and steal the glory for himself.
Shuffling off the concerns of kings and lords from his thoughts, Thorgrim again attends to Valtar, chasing after the man. "And now the last treachery, you deceive even yourself. Not content to die with honor, you make to run, and your corpse will have wounds on your back, showing your last cowardice.
Such a pity."
Throgrim continues hacking his sword like a wheat-thresher.
= 15
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Valter's stride falters when Hobwise pierces his leg. Jaunter's blade stops his retreat in its tracks. Thorgrim's blade removes Valter's head from his shoulders.
If the bandits were charged by a storm made flesh, the effect could not be more devastating. Some of the outlaws throw down their weapons and surrender; others are crushed or torn to pieces by the wrathful bear.
The knight of Gondor does not pause until the bandits have either fallen or fled beyond chase.
With the grim business done, Findegil beats sword on shield.
"VICTORY! VICTORY!"
**************
"Aye, Anar, that we ought to do."
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Seeing Valter fall to her companions blades, Amalina lowers her bow and whistles for Winter. Ruffling the hounds head, she checks his wound and is relived to find it isn't deep or severe. Unlike some of the others she notices with a quick scan of the battlefield.
With a sharp wince and grunt, she pulls the arrow from her own leg and binds the wound. Then moves over to the blood soaked dwarf.
"Well fought indeed." She says offering the dwarf a drink from her flask. "Let me help you with those wounds." She adds reaching for a few more strips of cloth from her pouch.
"Many will say we were victorious today. And for certain Valter needed to be put down. " She says shaking her head sadly as she looks over the bodies strewn across the battlefield. "But I think it was the Shadow that truly won the day. So many lives lost fighting amongst ourselves. So many warriors gone, while Orcs safely grow in numbers." She sighs heavily, tying another bandage.
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Findegil turns to Amalina.
"If we do not lance the boil from our body, it only grows infected and weakens us further. And Valter was far worse. While it would have been ideal if he had kept to the ways of the Free Folk, he did not. And if we had not acted, the Shadow would have wreaked havoc through him. In the balance, we did the best that we could."
"Assuming he has no overzealous kin? But fleeing, he did not flee to any home, but simply to the outskirts of these fine Folk - well, if his legacy is not so simply ended, surely we will eventually be enlightened of it."
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Flowing like poetry, Thorgrim continues with the follow-through, making sure that no bandit-captain charges, seeking to take vengeance for the death of his leader, but none come, and the body of bandits fall as quickly as their leader, with the head gone, now both figurative and literal.
Thinking it just, by right of success in single combat, Thorgrim bends, checking the corpse of the bandit king. 'Surely in this impoverished band the leader must have kept the best trinkets?' he thinks, already considering that he should save a decent grubstake before striking out to lands that know to make a decent platter of meat and good red wine.
Once his curiosity is sated, he returns to this companions. "Aye, you have the right of it, Findegil. As the weak of the herd is culled, the body as a whole is made stronger; more resistant to disease and stronger, more able to fight off predators. Not all destruction is without creation.
And I would not worry overmuch, sweet Cereidh. This is no village murder over cards or dice. This was as close to a government-sanctioned war as my people would ever get. Any with a brain in their head would know this was a justice-killing. If kin would take up arms over this, then they too are a weakness needing to be excised.
For the now, there is hard work to do before we rest. The bodies must needs be stripped and buried or burned before dark, or this place will be crawling with meat-eating beasts and searchers of carrion. Take what calm you require--I need to finish this last task with my people."
That done, Thorgrim casts his eyes about, his thoughts equal between gaining his share of spoils and cleaning up the corpses lest the field be overrun with wolves anon.
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Hobwise settles heavily into the dirt. During the height of battle he had felt only pressure and a pinch, but now the pain sears from four open wounds. Gritting his teeth, he plucks out the three arrows still sticking into his flesh. This was a new horror indeed. Nevertheless, with typical hobbit practicality, he feeds the bloodied arrows into his own quiver. He had loosed seven during the battle, and not a single one had touched the ground, so these were far easier to recover.
That gruesome task complete, he patches himself as best he can to stymie the bleeding, then pushes himself upright. Unsteady on his wounded leg, he guesses he can hide the limp that is likely to plague him for weeks to come. He unstrings his bow and fastens it across his back.
Seeing Thorgrim relieve the enemy dead of their uneeded items, Hobwise picks a broadsword and scabbard off a nearby corpse, an adequate replacement of the one he had been forced to sell to fund part of his stake in this adventure. Looking past the blade, he realizes he knew this man. Joran, he thinks to himself, assigning a proper name to the corpse. Such a shame.
He walks carefully to where Thorgrim is piling bodies. "Your ferocity in battle," Hobwise starts, "May I never see the like of it from another." Sizing up the work, he decides he is not up to it.
Not wishing to interrupt the grisly effort overlong, he approaches the only person he thought he could trust during these many months in exile. "Jaunter, it is an honor to call you my friend." He extends a bloodied hand toward the man who is twice his size.
He turns to the rest of the group. "I don't know about any of you, but I could go for something to eat!"
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Cereidh sits on the nearest flat surface - if it be the back of a fallen foe, then so be it. Carefully, she grips the shaft of the arrow sticking out of her shoulder and snaps off the farther length of it from the air, dropping it at her feet. And then doing the same for the one in her leg.
"Something stronger than ale might be better for cleaning these wounds - which is of main concern to me, should you want my drawing-arm strong and flexible. And the same concern plagues our doughty Hobbit, or it should. And I hope the Beornings' stew doesn't contain catgut! Although fierce Thorgrim may yet correct me on that."
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There was something in Jaunter that wanted to smile, but that desire was driven down by the grisly scene before the company. Arrayed about them were the dead, dying and wounded, many on both sides of the conflict... many slain by the companions themselves. Though the outcome was the best to be hoped for, still they were dark deeds, and this was a dark day.
Solemnly, Jaunter clasped Hobwise's arm in a warrior's embrace, nodding down towards the Hobbit.
"True did your arrows fly, and bravely did you stand when many more seasoned may have proven themselves craven and false. Never doubt the strength of you heart, Master Hobwise, for today, in my eyes, you stood as tall as Beorn himself. Truly, the honor of friendship is mine, for so courageous and cunning a person is no ordinary thing, be they of the race of Halflings, Men, Elves or Dwarves."
Breaking the clasp after a few moments, Jaunter rolled his shoulders, examining the areas where he had been wounded and finding them to be merely scratches. He set about cleaning and binding the wounds, speaking as he did and addressing the company as a whole.
"Our efforts here will not prove vain. We have helped defend the Beornings, and thus, all of Wilderland. You have all proven yourselves, and I am glad to be counted as your ally."