robothedino's page

Hey, and thanks in advance to anyone who has advice and thoughts to share on this topic.

I'm going to run my very first game of Pathfinder soon, and want to do things a little differently from the PF baselines. Specifically, my campaign is going to be grounded in a much more realistic mechanics system that tamps down hard on the epic fantasy assumptions of the baseline. My specific design goals here are:
- Keep things feeling "real" across levels. Being stabbed in the gut with a knife should always be a troubling thing, no matter what level you are; and even the greatest heroes should be worried about what happens when 20 level 0 goblins have them surrounded. And just because I'm a level 20 mage should not mean I'm better at shoving people around than a level 1 Fighter who has invested massively into Str and Athletics. Levelling up lets you get better at the things you invest in, not just getting arbitrarily better at everything.
- Make combat feel a bit more like real life, where getting wounded doesn't simply mean "still feeling just dandy, but marginally closer to keeling over dead!". Getting stabbed, slashed, or smashed by weapons should always feel meaningful, without opening the door to hyperrealistic one-shot player deaths.

Also to introduce more fun, interesting considerations to how players choose their weapons. I've always disliked how D&D has always treated a d12 sword and a d12 spear as essentially the same once they stick you (putting aside resistances, which generally only come from magical effects), and it erases the real-world rationales between different kinds of weapons.

So, here is the in-house system I'm planning to use:

1: I'm adopting the variant rule to remove Level from proficiency bonuses, this is the relatively easy part.

2: New mechanics for additional wounding mechanics on-hit, as follows:

- Whenever a hit lands, the natural die roll for the attack is compared to a threshold to determine if it is a Solid Blow or not. This threshold is calculated as:
10 + Defender's Fortitude bonus + Defender's armor bonus - Attacker's weapon Potency, maximum 20.
Whenever the natural d20 roll for the attack meets or exceeds this value, and the attack is a hit, it is a Solid Blow, with additional effects based on damage type:

- Slashing: Slashing weapons are designed to open grievous, bleeding wounds on unarmored targets. Their effectiveness against armor is severely diminished, but they should be terrifying to unarmored or lightly armored targets.
On a Solid Blow, a Slashing weapon applies Persistent bleeding damage to the target equal to the damage die type of the weapon, -1 step for each point of Armor bonus to AC. So, a d10 damage Slashing weapon against +3 armor would inflict 1d4 bleeding damage per turn.

- Piercing: Stabbing wounds penetrate deep, even if they're not as gruesome as slashing wounds, and are effective at applying force to weak areas on an armored target. A solid blow from a piercing weapon has 3 effects:
- inflict 1dx persistent bleeding damage, where x is their Str or Dex bonus, as appropriate to the type of attack
- when determining if the attack was a critical hit only, add the attacker's Strength or Dexterity to their attack total, depending on which stat was applied to the attack roll (ie, armor does less to prevent hits from becoming Critical Hits)
- the DC to remove the persistent bleed damage is increased by the attacker's Str or Dex bonus, again as appropriate to the type of attack (a small, deep hole in your gut isn't going to bleed as profusely as a huge gash, but is a lot trickier to staunch)

- Bludgeoning weapons lack the raw killing power of bladed attacks, but have the significant capacity to knock down or otherwise disable an opponent to allow for a coup de grace, and are particularly effective at pummeling heavily armored targets into submission. On a Solid Blow from a bludgeoning weapon:
- Inflict upon the target either the Shove effect, or knock them Prone
- If the hit was a Critical Hit, inflict Stunned X, where X is your Str or Dex bonus, depending on the type of attack

I have some additional modification to how persistent damage is handled that I'll circle back to later, but for now, I'd love the advice of the community on how these rules will play in terms of balance, keeping combat intense but not "oops ur dead lol", and maintaining a more down-to-earth, violence-is-scary feel. Particularly, if there are any character builds that get under or overpowered, or if there are other mechanical interactions I should be considering, I thank you for your insights!

Skurly has been sullen and distracted since his hopes of a meaningful revelation were dashed amidst the papery promontories of the clerk's offices. He sulked alongside Talib, his only reaction to the proceedings being a redoubled misery at the mention of Mylok, but he says nothing.

As they come upon the macabre, mad scene, he remains voiceless- but the malaise evaporates into a purposeful, bowstring-taut silence. Like a ghost himself, he raises a finger to his lips to hush his comrades, and slips into the room at a moment when all eyes are off the door, feet surprisingly nimbles below his rotund body. Slipping into the room, he takes a position behind a high-backed chair, where he hopes to catch a glimpse of what so engrosses Halgrak, and puts a finger within a hair's breadth of the trigger of his crossbow.

Stealth for a chance to finally do something he's actually good at: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (15) + 7 = 22

Before embarking out on their journey, Mbende donned a simple set of leather armor, well-worn and likely of second-hand origin, along with a traveling pack. Throughout the march, the little raconteur scarcely falls silent for a moment, chattering endlessly to anyone who will listen on any number of topics; his own past in the deep jungles of the Mwangi Expanse, his time in bondage in the slave-pens of Cheliax, the latest fashions in Absalomite couture, phrases that translate poorly from the halfling tongue to Taldane, improbable sexual positions rumored to be in vogue in Kaer Maga, the likelihood of a full lunar eclipse in the next year and what it might mean for the price of pesh in Qadira, and everything in between.

His porcine companion, who he has introduced as "Ojukokoro", is equally verbose, snorting and snuffling along the whole way. For the first leg of the journey, he disdainfully ignores Agni- apparently quite unhappy with the reference to his potential as foodstuff- but gradually warms up to him, and by the time they reach the tower the pig has begun responding with thoughtful-sounding grunts to the Osirian's self-directed mutterings, as if the two were old friends grousing over shared woes.

With the tower in sight, Mbende draws forth a pint-sized crossbow from his pack, along with a quiver of bolts, and loads one with a strained effort from his rail-thin frame.

"Eh," he mutters dubiously. "Big, ugly, don' go nowhere, not good for nothin'. Remind me of me brother-in-law back home."

He turns to his companions and shrugs. "Mebbe it gotta nice view from de top, though, right?"

A burst of raucous laughter flares up from a knot of patrons nearby, cutting through the general hubbub of the inn. As it passes, a high but bold voice with a hard-to-place accent can be heard to proclaim:

"So now you better remember this- in Thuvia, you always check your boots before you put 'em on. But in Absalom, you don't take 'em off at all!"

There is another roar of laughter, and the cluster of happy drunks opens to reveal a most bizarre figure. A halfling man, whose jet-black skin marks him as a son of southern Garund, hops off the table where he was holding court, and makes his way over toward the adventurers. He's clad in a motley ensemble, with the flowing blouse of a dandy accoutered with a snakeskin belt, rustic beads hanging from his neck, bare legs and loins covered only in a breechcloth, and his face dappled with intricate white patterns of dots and lines, and a wide-brimmed, foppish hat to top it off.

Even more strangely, he's followed by a small, hairy pig- not of the domesticated variety nor the tusked boar of Avistan's wilds, but some other breed, and similarly adorned in painted marks. The outlandish pair strut over to the fellow Pathfinders, and hands on his hips, the halfling looks them over with an impudent grin.

"You gotta forgive me, I don' like being late! These guys-" he jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the barflies he was regaling- "-always, 'One more story, one more story!' Mbende knows a tale for every drink Cayden ever took, and they all need tellin'."

The pig, meanwhile, has taken an immediate and intense interest in the nagaji, and is snuffling furiously at his unfamiliar scent.

"Eeey! I think 'e likes you! That's real good luck!"

Knowledge: Local: 1d20 + 7 + 1d6 ⇒ (15) + 7 + (5) = 27

Struggling to keep her composure, she looks to Skurly, "In those stories... what kinds of awful things happened here?"

Skurly looks up at the Sarenite priestess with an expression of conspiratorial affinity- glad to have his store of hoarded gossip, rumor, and folklore drawn against.

"Some say Mord was a cruel, hateful man who tied his hangman's knots just so to make sure the condemned would twist on the gallows as long as possible, and never a clean drop to send them off. Others called him a cannibal, who'd steal off the bodies of the dead and share them with his wife, who was truly an ogress in disguise, and-"

He broke off his litany of tall tales at the sound of the half-orc's shriek, mirroring it with a little squeal of his own and a startled hop, spinning in midair to face the cry like a jackrabbit.

That's it, then, he thought to himself miserably. Eight jurors, plus six of us. Some devil has mistaken us for parties to this debacle, and now we're in the soup with the rest of them.

That thought was wiped away at the sound of his sister's name. He took a few paces toward the dwarf, his eyes piercing bright with fresh tears, and a quaver in his throat.

"Amalfia? You... you know my sister?" He reached out his hand toward the dwarf, as if somehow the memory of her name was something he could hold on to and pull back into this world.

But then the Abadarite's whispered instructions drew his attention. He turned and gave the slightest nod- though consumed with melancholy and fear, he was still a little proud to have his services requested by such an important personage. Even little pebbles can stop up a great door, he assured himself.

In the back of his head, the wheels were turning, fitting together the pieces of the puzzle. But for now, his conscious mind was singularly focused on the memory of his sister, and he returned his attention to Tablark, pleadingly. "How do you know her? When have you last heard of her? Please, Sir Hammergrind, tell me what you can- Amalfia is missing, has been for years. I'm sure she lives still, but..."

His little, sharp eyes would melt the heart of Asmodeus himself.

Give 'em hell, guys! (See what I did there? Ok, ok, leaving now, I promise!)