Pathfinder characters: the old guard.

In this post: the first generation of player characters from our long-running Pathfinder campaign – as opposed to the long-suffering NPCs they harassed.

 

 

 

Harr, our halfling rogue. Like most other halflings, he has a harmonica, a tendency to touch things that aren't his, and a burning drive to kill his own parents for selling him into slavery as a child.

 

Magda, my half-elf fighter. There's some stupid joke to be made about exclusively picking fights with half-elves, but I think I have enough self-dignity to avoid it.

Nîmor, our dwarven paladin/inquisitor. (No, that's not multiclassing, that's unfortunate choices during character creation followed by hasty retraining.) A solid man-of-all-combat despite his truly prolific nat 1s, with a habit of putting his foot directly into his mouth when confronted with religious diversity.

Woodicles, our elven wizard. The ostrich-feather sleeves were artistic license and sadly did not come into actual play.

An unfinished piece of us barge-poling through the summer.

 

And some good old post-apocalyptic versions of Nîmor and Woodicles.

Pathfinder NPCs.

My friends and I play the tabletop RPG Pathfinder together. And if you know much about RPGs, or rather about the people who play them, then you know that a steady supply of NPCs is the only thing keeping the player characters from eating each other alive.

Here we have a tavern owner, a farmer, her son, and a blacksmith. Protip: being responsible for the party's artwork means you get to decide exactly how stupid everyone's hair is.

A town guard. The shield in the top-right isn't just decoration; our GM sat down and generated a bunch of heraldry for his noble families, so that we could theoretically track alliances wherever we travelled.

Florian, elven bard by day, serial skirt-chaser by night as well as day.

A wizard from the backstory of one of my characters.

Poor, poor Simon. After his father died on our watch, we had an uncharacteristic fit of responsibility and decided to adopt him into our adventuring party. Unfortunately, it turns out that your average traumatised 12-year-old doesn't take well to disarming traps and slaughtering goblins, so it was probably just as well when he disappeared with our pony one day.