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My group (~lvl 8 party) came across a small village that was about to come under the attack of an orc raid, and the villagers were torn on what to do. If they stayed, the orcs would mercilessly slaughter them, and if they fled, then the ones who would not be hunted down by the orcs would have died many horrible ways out in the unforgiving wilderness. As they had nothing to offer our adventuring party in return for our assistance, the group decided it was best to just move on, regretful that it was. They were of a combination chaotics and neutrals alignment. I was a Lawful Good fighter, and I would not be persuaded to leave.
The group, laughing as they left, took bets on how long it would take me to succumb under the green tide that was descending upon the town. They retreated to a safe distance out in the wilderness, while I was left alone to organize the 50 or so men, women, and children into some symbol of a fighting force. They had pitchforks, shovels, pots, pans, and other household objects. Dusk fell upon the village, and all was quiet, except the lumbering raid party on the horizon, echoed by the savage cries of the bloodthirsty orcs.
The battle lines were drawn, of what a battle line there could be. I, and my farmer army, strode out to meet the orc rabble. There was a puzzled look upon the orcs, which was quickly replaced by their hideous laughter. The people I swore to defend were terrified. Some fled, others vomited at the very thought of their deaths.
With a ferocious cry, the orcs charged, bloodlust in their sunken eyes. My greatsword at the ready, I calmly whispered a prayer to Torm, and charged. My charge was echoed by the screams of enraged peasents, who found courage in my own.
We slaughtered them all, under Torm's watchful eye.