Today, the odd party of Pathfinders set forth into the frozen waste of the north lands, under the sway of witches unknown, to escort a party of Shadow Lodge mercenaries in a three-day travel to turn them over to Society investigators. The mercenaries? Goblins. And quite the interesting party it was.
The half-ork monk by whom his only spoken word is his name, the halfling rogue that specialized in shooting between the legs of the taller members of the party, the sarcastic fighter with a broadsword who seemed intent on getting the party where they needed to go, the cleric, constantly distracted by the mundane and only communicating in shouts, the paladin wannabe with a broadsword and a mission, the uncertain warrior with a basic kit and eyes new to this conflict, and the elven rogue that didn't hit anything for the entire game. Heh.
The Pathfinder Society. Modules all the way.
From arguing over where to set up camp, considering dire rats as companions, fighting nightly ambushes- all in fourth watch, asking who brought the ten-foot-pole when the living doll levitates that exact distance into the air, and finishing with being completely paranoid at the offer of food and wine- aye, this is the group for me.