The train’s wheels moaned and shrieked, but dutifully carried on. Screams and the sound of rebounding shrapnel filled our heroes’ ears. Quickly,
Grok Gork and Jayson made a tactical re-positioning back into the caboose. Preparing for the incoming flood of green flesh from the maintenance door they had so rudely opened, they were unpleasantly surprised to see their new friends bust in through the cart windows.
Jayson bravely fought, quickly disabling an Orc with a swift shot to the leg. The Orc cried and wailed to his brethren however, who overwhelmed the poor human despite his best efforts. Luckily,
Grok Gork had finished entertaining himself with the rabble-rousers near the very very very dangerous open door. Grok Gork had previously watched in good humor as one Orc foolishly put too much weight into his swing and was promptly vaulted out of the cart by his own momentum. He also “axe”-d the other two Orcs a question, one which they could only answer by bleeding profusely and falling out of the train. But, swiftly the Orc veteran dashed and swung his mighty 10-inch in a skyward arc, rendering Jayson’s attackers… Well… Dead. He patched his new friend up with ease, and the two proceeded to the bar-cart to check on those dang elves. Well, elf and half-elf. Heh, half-elf.
Simultaneously, Zark and Robert were busy with their own conflict. The Orcs had effectively taken the cart hostage, well, until the two pulled out weapons. The Barman, worried about the welfare of his high-class bar, drew his very own longsword, because this was HIS GODDAMN BAR. Like a gust of wind, Zark whipped around the battlefield, removing any chance of flanking by the Orcs. Meanwhile, the Barman sprung over his bar and delivered a heavy blow to a nearby Orc. Slashing and stabbing his way through the ocean of pine green flesh, the Barman received a bullet wound to his arm. Fighting through the pain, Barman pushed on. Meanwhile, Robert provided moral support from the rather exposed stage atop the bar. His kind and rejuvenating words inspired his cohorts to fight harder, or something.
As the last of the Sword Grunts lay dying, the three descended upon the leader of the group, a gunslinger. However, the poor Orc was caught in the process of reloading, and fell victim to many many many stab wounds and severe blood loss.
Regrouping, the party left Barman to tend the tedious job of clean up. Accepting a few potions from the Barman, and scavenging the gunslinger’s rapier and pistol, the group left for the next cart.
The group encountered two Orc brothers who held the cart hostage. What ensued was a half genius/half totally idiotic course of action.
Grok Gork and Zark, the two, uh, most Orcish looking of the group, disguise themselves as Orcs. With a silver tongue and a little bit of luck, they convince the two brothers that they are their lost brothers. And that they must help them defeat all the other Orcs who have turned rogue and gone against IronJaw. Thus, joined Gkor and Krog.
Next, what ensued was the Worst Battle in DnD History. That’s all there is to say on the matter.